


9664

by Siriex, vitriol



Series: FSF SCP Foundation AU [1]
Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Alternate Universe - SCP Foundation, Blood and Gore, Gen, Narita come fight me in the back of a 7 eleven i dare you., We are very serious about the gore trust us, We took vol 6 spoilers and ran with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 55,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriex/pseuds/Siriex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitriol/pseuds/vitriol
Summary: Flat and Jack are secured, contained, and protected in that order.
Series: FSF SCP Foundation AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612933
Comments: 42
Kudos: 81





	1. Road Trip

**Author's Note:**

> A series of drabbles set in a common AU. In vaguely chronological order (for now). 
> 
> We are swimming in this AU and invite you to join us. The water's fine.

Jack is halfway up to their wrists in gore when Flat finds them. They do not notice him at first. Maybe never would have, it he hadn’t gasped loud enough to drag them from their reverie. Hand still slipping through intestines, they jerk around to assess the threat.

The threat is a boy barely out of high school with bright blue eyes and corn blond hair.

Jack had been caught before. On those occasions, the witness fled and tried to contact the police. They always caught them and killed them before they could. It is easy. All Jack has to do is put on a friendly face, and they are all too eager to come within stabbing range.

Flat does not run. He walks forward with his hands cupped around his mouth and eyes wild. “You’re getting DNA all over her!” Tiny hands encircle their arms and rip them out of the body. “This is a public road you know? There’s not any cameras here, but someone’s gonna walk by any minute!”

Jack dsoe not have the heart to point out that someone already  _ has _ , and he is trying to  _ help _ them.

“There’s a public restroom really close, so we can get you cleaned up. Then we’ve gotta get as far away as possible.”

What the  _ hell _ do you say to that?

“Okay,” apparently.

Flat does not ask questions, which only raises more. Jack lets him lead them to the nearest washroom and scold them for their carelessness for the novelty of it. They scrub at their skin until the only red is the raw rashes from repeated washing. Evidence erased, they turn their attention to the boy. He is humming his way through an outdated pop song, ostensively keeping watch. Why they’d trusted him to do so, they have no idea. “Who are you anyway?”

“Flat!”

“What.”

The boy’s brow wrinkles in confusion. He pouts. “Flat,” he says again, with only half the confidence.

“Your name is Flat.”

Flat rebounds. “Yeah! Flat Escardos. What’s yours?”

If it is a pseudonym, it is a horrible one. Jack finds themself looking about the room for any sign that might have prompted the improbable name. There is none. They sigh. “Why are you doing this? I’m a murderer. That wasn’t the first time I’ve killed, and it won’t be the last. You saw me.” They wipe their hands on their slacks. There are sirens in the distance. In mere minutes police will be swarming the area. They cannot stay for long. But Flat is standing between them and the doorway with a smile that is starting to make them uneasy.

“You’re not a bad person,” he says with such confidence that Jack feels ill.

“I murdered that woman,” they insist. “It wasn’t self-defense. I told her to come with me. I led her to a place I knew would be empty, and I killed her.” Flat is not moving. “I could kill you too,” they say. “Right here. Right now. I still have my knife.”

“But you won’t.” Still, Flat ducks out the door and into the night.

Jack’s heart sinks. They don’t know why. But then Flat’s head pops back in, and it brightens fast enough for them to know.

“You’re coming, right?”

And Jack does.

\-- 

Night falls and Jack is  _ still _ following Flat for no reason they can fathom. They walk for nearly three hours, further and further from the stretch of the city. Flat talks the whole time about absolutely nothing. He asks Jack about what TV shows they’ve seen, what games they play, and what brought them to this part of the world. Answers don’t come ready from a place of instability, but they try. Flat seems to appreciate it.

At the end of the three hours, they are in a forest preserve, standing in front of a tent. It is dirty, and a layer of leaves blanket the top. Flat unzips the door and ducks in. Jack follows. There are two sleeping bags inside. Flat grins wide. “We can hide out here tonight!”

“Is this your tent?”

“Yeah! It’s kinda like my secret base. Don’t worry! No one knows where it is except us.”

Jack sighs and slips inside. The nylon floor feels strange, but not unbearably so. They sit on the spare sleeping bag and slap it with their palm. “If we’re the only ones who know, whose is this?”

Several seconds pass while Flat stares like he’s looking for an answer. “Just in case?” He wears an absent-minded grin that tells Jack nothing and everything. It is no more confusing than anything else Flat has done so far. Jack files it under ‘things to keep an eye on’ and pushes it aside. If nothing else, they have a knife and Flat does not.

“I’ve got food too! Do you like granola bars?”

\--

They stick to the side roads. The fewer people see them, the better. Whenever anyone asks, Flat tells them that they’re siblings on a trip to see their ailing mother. It is a horrible lie, but everyone seems to buy it. Some even offer them rides, which Flat declines.

“Why siblings?” Jack asks one evening while they help Flat set up the tent.

Flat looks like he’s thinking for a moment before he grins and digs around for their remaining provisions. “’Cause you remind me of my older brother?”

“You said you were an only child.”

They’ve established a routine for these little idiosyncrasies. Jack observes, and Flat looks surprised and then laughs them off. The more time they spend together, the clearer it is that Flat does not know much about his past.

Rather than push the issue, Jack starts gathering dry twigs for a fire. “What do you think your brother would look like?”

“Blonde I guess?” Flat pulls out two bottles of water they’d filled up at the last water fountain. Both are half empty. “And he’s gotta be taller than me because he’s older. He dresses really cool too. He used to go to all those Steam Punk conventions, so he’d wear some of the accessories around. He took me to one once and it was really fun!”

Jack has met someone similar, though not in that sort of outfit. They focus and let the shift ripple through them. When it’s done Flat is gaping like he’s just witnessed a miracle.

“What- Jack? What was that? That was so cool! Like magic! How’d you do that?” He’s walking tight circles around them, inspecting every angle.

Jack sticks their arm out to stop him dead. “It’s a secret. But this’ll make the lie more convincing, won’t it?”

Flat nods hard enough to strain his neck.

\--

They head south for winter. As comfortable as Flat’s sleeping bags are, their padding is losing its puff with every night they spend sleeping on hard ground. The tent is also wracking up holes from ambitious bears (that Jack kills) and human error (that Flat apologizes for). They’re cuddled up for warmth more nights than not, and as sweet as it is in theory, Flat talks and flails in his sleep.

They are halfway to the next town when Flat goes still on the shoulder. His eyes are looking to the horizon, but they are not focused on anything. It is not the first time that Jack has seen him like this. It never becomes any less unnerving.

“Uh-oh.”

Jack has never heard Flat say  _ that _ before.

There’s a hand on his wrist, yanking him off the road and into the grass. The uneven terrain is difficult to walk on. He stumbles, but Flat keeps urging him on. “C’mon, Jack! We’ve gotta hide!”

“Hide? Why?”

“They’re coming!”

There is nothing on the road that Jack can see, but they still strain their eyes for the barest sign of a cruiser. Flat keeps pulling.

Fields do not provide much cover, particularly in this time of year. The plants come up to their shins at best. Jack can see a farmhouse in the distance, but Flat is tugging him in the opposite direction. “They’re probably five or six kilometers away, but they’re moving fast.”

Jack pulls back. “So why don’t we hide,”

The next thing they know their face is in dirt. Flat is holding them down in the furrow between crops. He lies next to them, finger pressed in a hush over his lips. Jack complies. The dirt is just wet enough for discomfort and it takes all their willpower not to struggle.

Three minutes in, the sound of tires hums into hearing. The engines are quiet, but nothing can silence cars on a badly maintained road. There are at least three trucks by the sound of it. Flat keeps his palm firm on Jack’s head while they pass. Jack looks over. Flat’s face is pinched in concentration. This is the most serious they have ever seen him.

It scares them.

They stay down for several minutes after the sounds fade out. When Flat finally lets go, he lets out a sigh loud enough to hurt their ears. “That was close, Jack! Are you okay?”

They manage to stand, though they slip once or twice in the dirt. “I’m fine. Are you?” They do not know why they are asking, but it feels like the right thing to do.

Flat beams. “Yeah! But wow, that was really close! I thought we were goners!”

“Who was that?”

And then Flat gets that look again. His eyes unfocus and the omnipresent smile falls from his lips. “I don’t know,” he says, “But I know they’re bad.”

\--

The black trucks come and go. Jack only sees them a handful of times, and only from a distance. Flat always seems to know when they are coming. Every time they approach, he reels Jack in and takes off running. Sometimes they huddle in their hiding place for hours before he gives the all-clear.

Jack still does not know who they are or what they want, but he knows that they are not the police. Even from thirty stories up, he could tell that those firearms aren’t the kind used by any officer or solider. The barrel is far too long and thin.

But they always leave, and Flat and Jack can resume their travel.

They have no real destination. It is more a constant departure than a journey. Countless roads pass under their feet. Sometimes Flat can talk their way into a motel room. Sometimes he can’t. Sometimes they scrounge together some money and grab a meal in a diner. Sometimes they go to bed hungry. Sometimes Jack gives in to their darker impulses.

Flat is always understanding when they do.

He helps them scrub off the blood by pointing out the stains they can’t see. Once, when Jack asks why, he tells them that it is probably just a part of who they are. The way he says that with a smile is just a little frightening.

But the moment passes like they all do.

They keep walking.

\--

One night over a rare cache of s’mores, Flat looks up at the stars with that big grin of his. “This is really nice,” he says. “I wanna stay this way forever.”

‘This’ is nearly a mile off the nearest road, huddled as close as they can get to the fire to stay warm. They’ve abandoned their tent- now it’s a blanket tossed over a branch, but it’s soaked through from last night’s rain. Their dinner of condensed soup sloshes uneasily in their stomach.

Jack takes another bite of their s’more and looks up too. There’s a bright light arcing across the sky. It might be an airplane or a comet, but it does not matter.

“Yeah,” they say. “Me too.” 

  
  



	2. Unwitting Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing lasts forever.

This is how the world ends.

Dark cracking out from the ground to swallow the anomaly in an impenetrable orb of black. He’s not conscious. He can’t be. And that makes it all the worse.

Clef’s seminar had not prepared them for this.

The earth does not crack so much as it _glitches._ Dirt turns to water turns to _nothing at all_ under her feet, cycling so fast that she cannot even fall through the spaces. She tries to scream for her squad mate to take the shot, but it comes out like radio, crackling between children’s laughter and fuzzy songs. It is not protocol. They are supposed to contain the anomalies, not destroy them. Orders from the top. Orders that had cost them thirteen agents to subdue the single thing below her.

He- She- They- It? Writhes in her hold, arms slapping at the inconsistent ground in an attempt to reach the ball of black. She thinks it is screaming. All she hears is static.

And then the bubble bursts. The boy hangs in the air like a puppet with its strings cut. She can see the whites of his eyes. Maybe the sniper can see him too. She can only hope, because the horizon is sinking down and in, and her knees are scraping against contracting dirt.

The thing below her yells and this time it is not static. It is a single word. One syllable. Out of place. There is blood seeping into her regulation pants where stones have scraped away its skin.

Reality flickers.

Stutters.

Skips.

Buffers.

The boy’s head is hanging down one moment and staring at her the next.

No, not her. The thing she’s restraining. It convulses. One strong jerk almost bucks her free, but she drills her knee between its shoulder blades and it falls limp.

An

Alarm

Scream

Voice

Storm

Rips the air.

And then it stops.

She’d not realized she’d closed her eyes until she’s forcing them open. The boy remains the center of her vision, but he is different now. He floats suspended with his back bowed back and mouth drooping. What is left of it anyway. The moment the shot connects hangs still for nearly fifteen seconds. Red particles form a cloud that almost obscures the shattered ruin of his skull. Would do so handily, if not for the teeth and chips of bone.

Time restarts.

The world renders back in the space of the boy’s fall to the earth. She breathes and takes stock. The thing below her has fallen still but for choking sobs. It will be easy enough to contain if they can pull themselves together. And they can. They are professionals.

Of their original forty-member team there are four left. The first thirteen bodies lay where they died. Somehow the mundane stab wounds are a comfort. The other twenty-seven are nowhere to be seen. She reaches for her radio and cracks open a channel. “Hawk?” She waits. Nothing. “Patel? Monsalud?” Silence. It is as if they’ve been deleted, but she knows better than to make any assumptions when it comes to skips.

The radio cracks. “Tukan! You alive?”

“Yes. I have the shapeshifter.” She yanked her zip tie cuffs from her pocket and secures them around its wrists to free her hands. She’ll need both hands to retrieve and administer an appropriate sedative. “Is anyone available to secure the other one?”

“Half his _head_ is gone,” a younger voice protests.

He is new. She can tell.

“I don’t give a shit if you’ve got his heart in a jar back in your dorm. Give him the strongest sedative we’ve got and load him into the truck.” 


	3. 9664

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flat wakes up in his new home. Though calling it a 'home' is a bit of a stretch.

No one is there when Flat wakes, if you could call it waking. His thoughts run slow like wading through knee-high water. He does not recognize the room he’s in. It is all concrete and minimalism. The cot is white. The walls are white. The toilet and sink and even the shower head are white.

There is no mirror.

There is no Jack either.

The thought strikes him several seconds before his emotions can catch up. “Jack?” His memory supplies the image of Jack bloodied and broken, pinned to the ground by a woman in tactical gear. It offers nothing after that. “Jack!” Louder this time, but no response. He reaches the door in three steps. It is solid steel and there is no handle. His head swims. He has no idea where he is, or where Jack is, or if they’re even alive.

Flat turns to press his back against the wall. Thinking is not getting any easier. It feels like the time he’d gotten a cold while they were on the run, and Jack had forced him to drink some Nyquil. He is not sure what happened after that, but they never offered him any kind of medication again.

Right. Jack. Where is Jack?

Even through the fog, he can ‘see’ a little. This place is clearer than anywhere he’s ever been. ‘It’ is confined to the area immediately surrounding his body, and a small strip seeping through the gaps in the door. He presses his palm against the wall. It does not have the rough feel of concrete or drywall. Instead it is smooth as metal, but warmer than he’d expected. The warmth even seeps through his shirt. Shirt. The fabric is thinner than he is accustomed to. He looks down. The button-down and vest he typically wears are absent, replaced with orange scrubs. He picks at it. Is this a hospital? It does not feel like one.

Hospital.

Injury.

Jack.

Why was it so hard to think?

Flat raises his head to try to drain the fluff. It does not help, but it does reveal a camera perched in the corner of the room. He stares. It winks red back.

“9664.”

He jumps. The voice vibrates through the metal of the door.

“Meal time.”

The bottom of the metal door pops inward and he scrambles back, falling over clumsy limbs. A tray slides through. It looks like the lunches he’d had in middle school. A plastic tray with segmented dips. There’s a small carton of milk, a sandwich, a container of vegetables, and a covered bowl of soup. There’s a set of plastic silverware and a paper napkin. He draws it in. “Where’s Jack?”

But the metal slams shut and the footsteps fade.

He fumbles with the hatch, but he can’t make it budge. There is nothing he can do until his head clears. He picks up the tiny carton of soup and cradles it between his hands. It is warm at the very least.


	4. An excerpt of an interview

Waking up in the cell of site  **██** was probably the closest thing to a blessing for Jack.

The walls were white. The ceilings were white. Even the fixtures on the walls were a smooth, unfeeling, porcelain white. The silence was deafening.

But even that was leagues above what had happened only half a day ago.

The world glitched. Shifted. Disappeared and reappeared in the midst of screams and sobs, only to end with a singular bullet that took out half of his partner’s head in one shot. As a murderer themselves, they had both seen and caused their fair number of gruesome scenes.

None of them would compare to the way that blood and brain matter seeped from the remains of Flat Escardos’ skull, nor the way that his body dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Even the mere thought of that made the nausea—already strong enough no thanks to the sedative that had been injected—increase to the point that they had no option but to lie down.

They wondered if their friend was dead.

And the fact that the answer to himself had been  _ I hope so _ only made their stomach twist with an intense guilt that they had never believed themselves to be able to feel before.

\---- 

“Has no one ever taught you to not shapeshift while someone’s speaking to you, SCP- **█████** ?” The gruff man—a researcher, Jack presumed—as he stared down at their current form: a child with white hair and sharp green eyes, face scarred by an incident that they no longer remember. In fact, they no longer even know who this body belonged to in the first place.

Jack shrugged. “I apologize. Although I suppose no one taught you to refrain from smoking in closed rooms either.” They spoke in a flat tone, creating a sort of dissonance with the girlish voice that belonged to the person they were impersonating. “I guess I survived yesterday in order to die today from asphyxiation.”

The researcher clicked his tongue, taking another drag from the cigarette. “Got a mouth on you, don’t ‘cha? Hilarious.” He did not seem to be pleased in any way whatsoever. “As you said, you survived yesterday’s incident. To think we went looking from you and found ourselves a Type Green as a bonus prize. It took out twice the men you did.”

“…”

The man smirked upon the SCP’s unease, taking another drag as he thought up his next move. “What can you tell us about that thing?”

More silence. Jack could feel the memories buzzing once more in their head. The way that the World shook, as if the whole Universe had been giving off a horrifying grating noise. Swallowing the bile rising in their throat, they shift once more—this time, into their very own partner. From the corner of their eye, they noticed the way that the Agents were readying their guns, their skin turning an ashen color. No doubt that the news of yesterday had reached them as well.

Blue eyes stare directly at the researcher’s gaze, cold. “Their name was Flat.”

“Names are for those that are  _ actually _ people.” The researcher bites back, snuffing out the cigarette on the desk. “That  _ thing _ is probably the farthest thing from a human being. Hell, I even bet that you’re closer to ‘human’ than they will ever be."

Jack is silent. While they don’t necessarily agree with them, they also cannot disagree. It makes them feel guilty.

“I don’t know anything.” They finally muttered, eyes downcast, staring at their lap. “Not until you confirm that he’s alive.”

And while Jack had not looked up to confirm, they could practically  _ hear _ the smile on the researcher’s face as they answered. “That’s classified.”

“Of course, it is.” Jack muttered, shoulders drooping as the hopes of seeing their friend alive dissipate with every second. After a moment of thought and a sigh, they admitted defeat. “I guess I never realized until then just how strange he was.”

That made the man in front of them raise an eyebrow, clearly confused. “You’re kidding me—you never questioned its strangeness?”

“I’m sure I did at first.” Jack shrugs, wringing their hands nervously as they recall their first few months together. “There were things that I couldn’t understand, such as why the kid always seemed to be seeing way farther than I could or why they even chose to stay with me despite the fact that I am—well, you know—a serial killer.” They laugh, dry and withered by the series of events that had brought them here. “But at some point, I…grew used to it, I guess.”

The man in front of him stares onward, adjusting the hat on his head as he reaches to light up a new cigarette. “’s not that you grew used to it because  _ you _ got used to it.” They say, exhaling the cigarette smoke as a dark wisp. It smelled terrible. “It’s because that thing was getting into your head, making you think whatever it wanted you to. That’s how reality benders work, **█████** . You were nothing more than its plaything.”

For some reason that they couldn’t figure out at that moment, the words that come from the researcher leave a bitter taste in Jack’s mouth. If they had less control of themselves, they would have jumped on the man and snapped his neck. But they had the disadvantage here, with a number of armed agents surrounding the two of them.

And the man in front of him, too, was far more dangerous than they appeared to be at first glance. As someone with the nature of a serial killer, they knew when they were biting more than they could chew. Instead, they leaned back in their chair, staring at the white ceiling above them. “This may sound crass, sir,” they began, their voice mild, “but I unfortunately cannot agree with you completely.”

The man sneered. “Sympathetic for the creature, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Jack shifts once more, now the form of an older Englishman, hands neatly folded on top of the table. “If they were using me, then it was not a conscious decision. I’ve shared tea with many manipulators and sociopaths—you included—but not once did Flat have that maliciousness that you or even I have.” The corners of their lips turn upwards into a small smile when they notice the way that the researcher’s jaw tightens upon their opinion. “If they’re alive, then ask them—I’m certain that they still believe they’re one hundred percent human, even now.”

“Well that’s common for all of them.” The man responds, pushing his chair away from the table in order to stand up, adjusting their hat. He had more than enough of the newcomer and their stubbornness. While he knew of the reality bender’s condition (alive, in a medically induced coma as its head repaired itself from being blown up) they had no reason to make the SCP privy of such information; it would undoubtedly cause them more harm than good. “But once they realize what they can do, it gets to their heads. That thing erased 27 agents from existence—imagine what would happen if they had been allowed to roam free for longer?”

“…” Silence. Jack turns away, reluctantly agreeing with the man. “He was scared.”

“And damn straight it should be. We have more where that came from.” With those words as a final parting, the researcher gestured to the agents that were standing guard. “Take it away. We’re done for the day.”

Once the researcher stepped out of the door and Jack was left alone with the agents, there was no struggle. They allowed themselves to be cuffed, eyes settled on their disappearing back. “Are they always such a bloody bastard?” They asked, though mostly in a rhetoric manner—they didn’t expect anyone to respond.

However, one did. They looked young—Jack wondered if they were new. As they placed the cuffs on them, the person could only sigh quietly. “Sometimes. I heard he hates reality benders the most.” 

With irritation, Jack realized that they could almost sympathize with that feeling.


	5. Scratching an itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack can't hold back any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Things get pretty gory towards the end of this drabble.

For as long as Jack can remember, they’ve had an itch. It radiates up from their brainstem and gnaws at their gray matter until it is almost unbearable. Fresh blood caked under their fingertips washes it away for a time. But it always comes back.

That itch chased them across a country and back. It nipped at their heels, only allowing them rest when they scratched knives through others’ skin. After so many years of running, sitting still feels strange. In some ways it is a relief. In others it is torture.

Their room is a cell, and the Foundation does not allow them visitors without an armed guard. Jack cannot blame them. A trail of bodies does not a good reputation make.

But it hurts.

White walls and white sheets and white fixtures are no distraction from the itch scrawling through their brain. Weeks pass. It is the longest they’ve gone without killing since they’d grown strong enough to do so. More often than not, they wake with their nails curled deep through their mattress. The Foundation does not offer them a replacement.

It itches. They fear for their sanity.

There is nothing but time in this prison. Time to think and time to regret and mostly time to plan. There are things the Foundation does not know yet. It would be wise for Jack to keep them hidden until an opportunity to escape presents itself, but the itching is pins and needles that dig in deeper every time they shift.

By the sixth week Jack cannot eat. Their wardens take it for melancholy and offer them several paperbacks to distract them. It is almost thoughtful. Jack cracks one open, ignoring the stains, and tries. They hardly get a sentence in before they cannot read another word.

Jack forces themself through a paragraph. It takes nearly four hours.

Sacrificing a trump card for temporary relief is not a smart move.

Jack chooses it anyway.

\--

The clock strikes three in the morning, and he forces down a yawn. Surveillance is not the most exciting job the Foundation has to offer, but excitement is a bad thing in this line of work. Even on the night shift, he can’t complain.

His new assignment is about as boring as it gets. Sure, its appearance shifts from time to time, but compared to the other things he’s seen that’s nothing. All this one does is lie on the floor, look miserable, and entertain the occasional interview. But those happen during the day, and nothing is scheduled. Maybe if he’d gotten assigned to the other one, his eyes would not be drooping like this.

It takes all his willpower to force his eyes back to the monitor. It requires none to keep looking.

There is someone else in the room. The skip is sitting cross-legged on the floor, chatting with someone in a white coat. It is a woman that he knows well- one of the researchers assigned to this skip’s case. She is green. Too confident. Too smug. Just the type to sneak into a containment cell in the middle of the night without the requisite armed guard.

He slams his fist on the intercom button. “Dr. Willis. You are not authorized to enter the containment chamber. Please leave immediately.” No reaction for either the doctor or the skip. He tries again. “Dr. Willis. Evacuate the chamber immediately or there will be consequences.” Nothing. Not so much as a pause in conversation. He smacks the device with his hand. Tries one more time. “Get out. Now.” It is as if they do not hear him. Perhaps they cannot. Technology is prone to breaking, and the anomalies they contain can interfere. He checks his gun and flicks off the safety. A skip’s a skip, but this one seems human enough based on the briefings he’d received.

There are several other guards at several other monitors in the room, and all but the most dedicated are staring. He jerks his thumb at the screen in exasperation. “One of you work the locks for me, would you? Gotta get this crazy bitch out of there.”

The woman to his left nods. He takes his leave.

Soundproofing is excellent in the Foundation. Has to be to contain auditory memetic hazards and the like. This means that the hallway is silent but for his footsteps.

There are two sets of doors leading into the containment chamber. Both can only be opened from the control room. It is another procedure instituted to prevent a breach and has proved relatively successful. It also means that he loses precious seconds getting in. The skip seemed docile on camera, but he has little way of knowing if anything’s changed while he was en route.

With the help of his coworker in the control room, he gets through both doors in a matter of seconds.

Dr. Willis seems shocked to see him. She leaps to her feet and has the gall to look embarrassed. The skip only seems disappointed. He keeps his gun trained on it. “Out,” he says again. “And I’m reporting this to your supervisors. You could have died- Hell, you could have caused a breach! That thing’s Euclid for a reason.”

She makes for the door.

A voice crackles from the speaker. “Opening,”

He does not understand the rest. The only thing in his head, ringing in his ears, is that _the intercom is not broken._ He cocks his gun. The skip looks up at him.

It smiles.

As Dr. Willis’s hand clamps tight around his head twists ‘til it snaps.

\--

Jack heaves a sigh as their double- in the guise of Dr. Willis- collapses in on itself. Maintaining and controlling two bodies simultaneously is no small feat. But it is worth it for the way that cool relief washes away the itch.

It is not gone completely. Snapping necks is all well and good, but the shrieking voice inside them is never satisfied until it tastes blood.

Their sleeves are short so there is no need to roll them up. There is no need for shame either. Like Flat always said, this was just who they were. If they’d ever doubted that, the Foundation’s treatment confirmed it.

So they slip the gun from the guard’s death grip and press the muzzle against his belly.

It will make a small hole to start, but it is better than nails alone.

\--

The body stays with them for hours.

Jack has never tarried after a slaughter, so they are unfamiliar with the way a corpse breaks. First the body goes cold. At this point there is no appeal in digging around in its guts. They sit back on their heels and look up at the surveillance camera. It stares back at them, impassive. They get up to wash their hands in the sink.

By seven in the morning, the corpse’s limbs are going stiff. It is impeding Jack’s anxious pacing, and it needs to move. They haul it into a corner, leaving trails of blood along the way. The place is filthy now: Another thing they’d never had to account for when killing in the past.

Then there is the gun.

They are already at risk of punishment, perhaps even execution, for this. ‘But I really, _really_ wanted to’ is no excuse for murder. ‘It had a gun’ is, and Jack cannot afford to die just yet. Not when they do not know if Flat is waiting for them in this world or the next.

So they flick the gun’s safety back on and pack it into the corpse’s abdominal cavity, secured by knotted intestines. There is not nearly as much blood this time, at least in part because most of it is on the floor. Instead of washing their hands, they strip down and drape their dirty clothing over the corpse. They take a shower, and try not to think about what will happen when the day shift arrives.


	6. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After six weeks in the Site, Flat still doesn't know why he's here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS HAVE SOME FIC. there's some mention of gory stuff but not that bad tbh.

There is not much that Flat can remember about his life before Jack.

If he had to describe it, it would have to be like that the memories of his childhood were always obscured by a thick fog, with images that were so vague, they might as well not be anything at all. There were no warm memories of his family, no parents teaching him how to ride a bike or taking him to his first day of school. He could not remember any of his birthdays prior to meeting Jack, despite being highly aware that he was 19 years old.

Even his own name, was a concept that was shrouded in mystery. He had never heard anyone call him any sort of name, much less one like Flat Escardos. But, just like his age, it was something that he simply _knew._ As if it had been recorded into his very essence, that this was, without a doubt, his birthname.

The first time he began to doubt the nature of his memories was when he first met Jack.

It had been the look on their face, as if what he had been saying had been nonsense, that had made Flat stop in his tracks. Though the moment had only lasted for a second, it was the first time that his heart had felt a bitter taste of something that would, a year and a half later, become part of his daily life.

Fear.

Fear of himself, of the foggy reality that they had come to accept as their life.

But it was a feeling that had left as soon as it came, and would not rear its head again until that day they were captured.

Truth be told, Flat had no idea how they had managed to get them. His senses were always so sharp, able to easily pick up things that Jack couldn’t even begin to _see_. But beyond sight, it was always something like…a gut feeling. A nagging sensation that something was going to happen—and it always did.

But, as Flat stared up at the cold, unfeeling ceiling of his room, his mind hazy from the something that the liquid that dripped from his IV, he realizes that he _did_ have such a feeling.

It had been like a bad omen, something that did not grip his heart with fear so much as it made him feel an incredible amount of unease. He remembers telling Jack that they needed to leave _immediately_ , for something _bad_ was on its way and—

They ran.

They ran, and ran and ran, fully aware that there was nowhere to hide anymore. No furrows or old, deserted barns where they could wait it out—they had squads of people covered from head to toe in black equipment coming for them.

Flat remembers the way that Jack pulled their hand away from his grip, grey eyes wide with fear as they begged him to _leave them behind_ , that these people were only looking for them.

He doesn’t know what he screamed in response.

He doesn’t remember anything at all, actually. Only that paralyzing sensation of fear sinking its claws into his heart, his brain, and his very own soul as he realized that he would be _alone_ without Jack and that he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t be alone again _not again_ —!!

“The Skip’s having an episode.” One of the researchers noted as they looked into the screen. They watched as the newest prisoner of the Foundation tossed and turned despite drug-induced daze, keeping track of how its heart rate and blood pressure rose with what seemed to be some sort of panic attack.

After weeks of keeping track of it and its behaviors, they’ve come to learn that these spikes of anxiety are not a rare occurrence.

They have also come to understand that this is the moment when the subject is at its most dangerous.

Unlike the Euclid shapeshifter that was imprisoned in the higher floors of the building, the thing they had here was a hundred—no, a thousand—times more dangerous. Despite the appearance of a regular, if not smaller than average teenage boy, every researcher and agent in the floor knew just how dangerous the skip could be.

When it had first been wheeled into the Site, with half its skull blown off and under enough sedative to bring down an elephant, the researchers half hoped that it would be declared dead on arrival, as it should have had no vitals to speak of.

But, as soon as they confirmed that it was _still breathing_ despite it all, they wasted no time in classifying the anomaly as a Keter. They watched from a distance and with macabre curiosity as the new subject’s injuries healed at an exponential rate. Brain matter, bone, nerves, eye, muscle, blood vessels, and skin all rebuilding itself, creating new tissue from where there was none.

It was no doubt part of its abilities as a reality bender. Unlike most of them that worked with what they could _consciously_ acknowledge, it appeared that this one’s influence extended all the way to the subconscious level; even the instinctive desire to _live_ was enough to shift reality.

Since its containment, six weeks have passed. And while there have not been any more casualties since that day, they’ve all come to realize why it’s much simpler to terminate a reality bender rather than to contain it. The anchors only work for so long and even approaching it in its sleep has resulted in the occasional loss of a limb or spatial shift—one agent that was changing its IV found themselves on the other end of the Site as soon as they stepped into the cell.

So, as a D-class agent was sent into the subject’s room with instructions to raise the dosage of the diazepam, the researchers and guards had more than enough reason to be cautious over what could occur.

As they unlocked the door, they watched as the reality bender jumped up from his mattress, pressing its back against the wall, similar to a caged animal. It stared at the agent that had come through the door with wide blue eyes—

And smiled. If it could even be considered as such. It was closer to a grimace than an actual smile, like someone who had suddenly lost the muscle memory required to pull the correct muscles into the form of a smile. It was forced beyond belief and, more than anything else, absolutely unnerving.

The camera feed cuts for a mere second static filling the screen in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. They paid little mind to it—technology is always bound to have its faults. They kept watching.

\--

Flat had always tried to greet the people that came in his room with a smile. In the year and a half of traveling with Jack, he had realized that it was the easiest way for people to trust them—offer a bright smile and good intentions and they’ll be more than willing to help. And while Jack used this strategy to satisfy their darker impulses, Flat quickly realized how useful it was in most situations.

Smile.

_Smile, and it’ll be alright_ , he told himself. _It’ll be okay._

All he wanted to do was to see Jack again. He just wanted to see them, and continue the never-ending journey that they had set off on a year and a half ago.

“You…wish to see your friend again, right?”

The words that came from the agent came as a surprise for Flat, who was still trying their hardest to maintain the forced smile on his face. Was it…that easy? How did this person know? They had never spoken before, but the fact that he spoke so kindly gave him an inkling of hope. He was finally going to see Jack again.

He nodded, his blue eyes looking up at him, his smile easing into something closer to the ones that he used to be able to make when Jack was by his side. The sedatives made standing up difficult at first, but he forced himself to walk anyways—by the third step, he felt fine. Clear as day.

But even that hopeful light was little more than a flicker, as those above him were able to see and hear those same words. Unlike Flat, however, they knew better than to see this as a simple request. The researchers watching did not wait much longer after they saw the effects of the drugs dissipate at a rapid speed.

In less than a minute, an entire squad of about 7 agents had their guns pointed at both the anomaly and the agent, who seemed to not understand the situation he suddenly found himself in, or why he was holding the skip by the wrist, instead of following the orders given from above.

“Step away from the anomaly, Agent Simmons.” One of the agents warned, her voice cold and unfeeling as she cocked the gun that was aimed directly at SCP-9664’s forehead. There was no need to avoid vital areas if the skip was going to live through any mortal injury anyways.

As the so-called Agent Simmons moved away from the subject, Flat was forced to stare back into the barrel of the gun. Once again, he felt that terror grip his heart and throat in a vice grip, and his body was frozen in place as his thoughts raced. Why? Why him? What had he done so horribly wrong to deserve such a fate? Why couldn’t he be allowed this _one_ thing?

He took a step back, hoping to at least be able to make it back into his room.

What he was met with was with something cold pressed against his back—another gun barrel.

Flat felt his blood run cold, a scream forming and dying in his throat. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die he didn’t want to die he didn’t want to die not here not here not here not here nono _no **no**_ —

_If only they’d just go away._

And in an instant, _it_ happened.

If it had been any other case, Flat would have chalked it up to a bad dream, or maybe even a hallucination. Even if he had only looked away, then maybe he could have convinced himself of either of these things.

But there was no way to pass off what he _saw_ , as un real as it seemed, as a mere hallucination. Not as he watched how, before his eyes, the agents that pointed their weapons at him disappeared. There were no remains, not even ashes, or a single strand of hair—it was as if they had never existed in the first place.

As if someone had erased them entirely from existence.

And Flat had no choice but to stare at the now empty corridor, turning around with an amounting fear that shook him to his very bones

_Did I… do that?_

He felt like he had just had the wind knocked out of him. Like he couldn’t breathe. With shaky steps, Flat backed himself against a cold wall, not once taking his eyes off of the scene before him.

In that moment, he remembered.

He remembered the way that the people in black fought Jack. The way that Jack split themselves into three, four copies of themselves, each doing their best to fend them off, all the blood that was spilled onto that soft, unfeeling ground. He remembers screaming, _begging_ , to leave them alone, _please leave them alone!_

What happened after comes to him less like a memory and more like the scene of a movie. He sees the ground shift, break, disappear, and reappear all together in the blink of an eye, noises distorted beyond distinction, and people disappearing without a trace.

And in the middle of it—he saw himself.

Flat felt his knees give in, hitting the cold tile floor of the Site with a dull thud. He could feel his body shaking, tears filling his eyes as he came to the horrifying realization that there was no way he could be human. The brittle, foggy reality that he had made himself belief for a year and a half—that he was just Flat Escardos, a normal teenage boy—was all a lie.

He did not sob or scream; he had not the strength to do either. And when the second team of agents arrived at the scene, guns pointed in a similar fashion as the previous one, Flat did not fight back. He allowed himself to be sedated, accepting for the first time his fate as a prisoner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! if you'd like to hear me cry more about flat, please add me at @glascheit on twitter!


	7. Taking Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to its reality bending capabilities manifesting even its subconscious desires, O5 Command has ordered the termination SCP-9664.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, this gets pretty... dark. Unpleasant. Gore is involved, and various other unpleasant things. 
> 
> I am so sorry.

Life spent in a white box with only gun barrels for company would be worse without the sedatives clogging up Flat’s head. He sucks in air, breathes it out, and tries not to think. He’s already spent far too much time thinking about where he is, what he is, and what happened to Jack.

Thinking is dangerous.

Thinking gets people killed. 

Flat’s captors know that better than anyone. There are no more people in lab coats or body armor. There are only tired people in orange jumpsuits bringing food and fresh laundry. Flat tears a grin as the third stranger of the day sets a tray in front of him. He thanks her as brightly as he’s able, but she runs out anyway. He wishes he could blame her.

The food they give him is better than the things he’d eaten on the run, but it does not taste right without Jack to share it. It is not _good_ food. The meat is chewy, and the vegetables are the wrong side of crisp. But if he does not eat then there is _no_ chance that he will see Jack again, so he powers through it. He even sends his compliments to the chef along with a smile.

The food is his undoing, he thinks, as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet for the third time that day. He has had food poisoning before, but never this severe. It hurts. When it feels safe, he forces himself onto the mattress and tucks his knees to his chest.

Food poisoning usually passed within a day or two.

After that he would be fine. He was sure of it.

-

When Flat wakes, he hardly remembers last night’s discomfort. He stretches and takes inventory. Four white walls, one white bed, a sink, a shower, a toilet. Nothing has changed. If anything is different, it is the lingering sense that they _really should have delivered breakfast by now._ His stomach rumbles.

-

**Termination Log T-46556-OC759/9664**

Due to its reality bending capabilities manifesting even its subconscious desires, O5 Command has ordered the termination SCP-9664.

**Attempt 1**

**Result:** Failure

**Method:** Thallium

**Results:** SCP-9664 was administered 1160mg of thallium sulfate (20mg/kg, 2x the regular lethal dose) via its evening meal. Within four hours of consumption, SCP-9664 displayed symptoms of gastrointestinal distress, consistent with the typical progression of thallium poisoning. SCP-9664 fell asleep approximately two hours after the initial onset of symptoms and remained so for seven hours. Upon waking, SCP-9664 displayed no symptoms of thallium poisoning. Additional blood testing found no signs of thallium.

_Notes._ Upon receiving its midday meal the following day, SCP-9664 inquired after the health of the other personnel, expressing its belief that it had contracted food poisoning. It seems SCP-9664 misattributed its symptoms, and subconsciously altered reality to reflect its beliefs.

-

Today’s midday meal is a much bigger than usual. Flat stares down at his cold turkey, mashed potatoes, and vegetables with as much joy as he can muster. Perhaps it is some kind of holiday on the outside. He has no way of knowing. The slow march of his meals is his only indication of passing time. He has never been the type to keep count.

But the size of today’s meal, coupled with the continued presence of the Orange Jumpsuit that brought it, is unusual. His back is pressed against the door, and his eyes shift from wall to wall. He keeps wiping his palms on his pants.

Flat fiddles with his bio-degradable spork. He considers his meal and weighs it against rare company. No one has spoken to him since The Incident. He clears his throat and lifts the corners of his lips. “You want some?”

Given the stranger’s light complexion, Flat is surprised when he goes even paler. Until now, he’d been unsure if the people bringing his food and laundry were aware of what he’d done. It is enough to answer his question.

“More for me I guess!” Flat stabs his food with the spork’s pathetic tines and shoves it into his mouth, bite by bite. It tastes fine. He still has to force it down. He offers food to the visitor several more times, but always receives a shake of the head. By the time his plate is empty, he’s resigned himself to another day without the sound of another’s voice.

Any other meal, he’d leave the tray by the door for someone to fetch, but the man in the orange jumpsuit is moving forward with his hand out. Flat thanks him as he hands it off- both for the help and the company. Hollow as it may be, it is the most time he’s spent with anyone since he was separated from Jack.

The man’s eyebrows pinch up in confusion for a moment. Then into worry. He is back at the door within moments, rapping at the metal. It does not budge. He tries again. Nothing.

Flat takes a step towards him. He knows he cannot help, but it feels wrong not to try.

Predictably, the man does not take it well. “You,” 

“Me?” Flat is already retreating back to the bed. He does not want to make this stranger uncomfortable.

Rather than calm, this only seems to agitate him further. The man rubs at his head and looks at the door. The camera. Anywhere but Flat. “That food. It was, uh,” His fingernails are scraping at the door. Flat thinks he sees blood. He tries to shrink himself smaller to look less threatening, but it has no noticeable effect. “It was poisoned.”

The door snaps open, and the man is gone.

Flat’s jaw hangs slack. The tray is on the floor. The man dropped it in his rush to leave.

He picks up the tray, rights the plastic plates as best as he can, and sets it by the door. That done, he walks to his bed and waits.

-

**Attempt 2**

**Result:** Failure

**Method:** Thallium

**Results:** As in the previous attempt, SCP-9664 was administered 1160mg of thallium sulfate via its evening meal. Subsequent to the meal, SCP-9664 was informed that it had ingested poison. The symptoms of thallium poisoning progressed as normal. SCP-9664 requested medical attention repeatedly for the first two days. Despite worsening symptoms, it did not request help again after the third day. By the fifth day, SCP-9664 refused food and did not move from its bed. At approximately 03:00 on the morning of the sixth day, video surveillance malfunctioned for approximately three seconds. When the feed resumed, SCP-9664 was sitting upright in bed. It displayed no further symptoms of thallium poisoning, and blood tests found no evidence of thallium in its system.

_Notes._ Explicit knowledge of the poisoning increased the duration of its effects but was not sufficient to terminate the anomaly. As with its retrieval, SCP-9664 seems capable of repairing lethal damage to its body. Hampering its ability to regenerate may be sufficient to terminate the anomaly.

-

Smiling came simple on the road with Jack. Now Flat twitches each muscle up into place. He is not sure that it looks like a smile anymore- Whether the orange jumpsuits grimace at his expression or his existence. He keeps trying because he does not know what will happen if he stops. Maybe abandoning this fragment of sociability will be the thing that turns him into the monster they all fear.

Days pass, or he thinks they do. He still receives three meals a day. He continues to eat them because he has no other options. They have not tried to poison him since the last time- or at least they have not told him of any such attempts. 

There is very little to do all day other than sleep and play back conversations from months in the past. There have been very few conversations since then. Mostly people asking him to stick his arm out for blood.

He suspects that this visit will be more of the same. Apparently the people who draw his blood are more valuable than the people who bring him meals, because they are always accompanied by an armed guard cloaked tight in tactical gear.

The first person who shoulders through the door has his gun trained on Flat. This is not new. He should be distressed that he has become so accustomed to looking down the barrel of a gun.

Flat forces his best smile and rocks to the side to see the rest of the group.

There is none. The man is alone.

“Good mo,”

The second syllable never escapes Flat’s mouth.

-

The skip’s brains paint a flower across the cold, white walls. The guard keeps his rifle raised until his superior’s voice clicks through the intercom, informing him that all vital signs have ceased… for now. He approaches, hooks his toe under its back, and flips it over. The gun command had issued him had blown off the thing’s skull. Its neck was a mess of tissue screaming out at odd angles.

He motions for the work crew to come in. There are two and both are D-class. He wrinkles his nose, more at the jumpsuits than the carnage.

The D-Class duo hefts the corpse and presses the shredded remains of its neck against the wall as instructed.

Like some kind of fucked-up paintbrush, the guard thinks. Rather than dwell on it, he keeps his gun steady. You did not survive the Foundation without keeping your guard up.

-

**Attempt 3**

**Result:** Failure

**Method:** Destruction of the brain via gunshot wound to the head. Head obstructed to prevent regeneration.

**Results:** SCP-9664 showed no evidence of vital signs. Initial examination of the wound suggested that SCP-9664’s brain, assuming typical human anatomy, was completely destroyed. Five hours and thirteen minutes following cessation of vital signs, the area around the wound showed signs of regeneration. Within two hours, the neck and chin had completely recovered. SCP-9664 initially appeared unable to regenerate further with the wall of its containment chamber occupying the space above its neck. Seventy-six hours following the initial cessation of vital signs, the flesh around SCP-9664’s neck and chin began growing onto the wall via a process visually similar to cytoplasmic streaming. This growth continued for an additional hour and forty-six minutes before stopping. The final reach extended a full 35cm from the original point of contact. At 16:08 on the same day, video surveillance malfunctioned, consistent with previous instances of acute reality instability. When the feed resumed, SCP-9664 had moved to the bed. With nothing obstructing its path, regeneration resumed at a rapid rate, restoring SCP-9664 to its previous, unharmed condition within twenty-two minutes. All vital signs resumed shortly after.

_Notes_. Destroying SCP-9664’s brain and obstructing its ability to regenerate do not seem sufficient to terminate it. Its consciousness may be stored elsewhere in its body, or even a separate location entirely. Instantaneous and complete destruction of its body without its conscious or unconscious awareness may be the only way to terminate the anomaly. Unfortunately, this is not plausible with currently allocated resources and authorizations. Systematic destruction of discrete portions of SCP-9664’s body (e.g., limbs, nervous system) may provide vital information for its ultimate termination.

-

The sedatives are not working anymore- Not the way they should. The fog in Flat’s mind is more clouds. It floats on top of his thoughts, only obscuring the periphery. He tries to reach up for those clouds, but he can never quite reach them. Not when the doctors started ripping tissue samples from his arms. No when they escalated to fingers. Not when a doctor came in and told him that it would be for the best of the world if he decided to die.

Flat does not like pain, so the wounds heal. He wants to see Jack again, so he does not die.

The men and women in orange jumpsuits come and go. Some Flat sees every day, and others disappear after only a few visits. He asks after them at the beginning. Mostly he receives blank stares, though on one occasion a haunted woman gives him a look that tells him everything he needs to know. He stops asking. New or old, Flat makes sure to greet them with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Rather than return the gesture, most flinch or look away. One (a newer one he thinks) meets his eyes with a mix of rage and concern.

And things continue. Three meals, one bed, and one locked door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really hard to write. I just want Flat to be happy. And yet look what I've done. 
> 
> I hereby pass the baton back to my wonderful coauthor.


	8. "Flat"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flat finally has a conversation, but at what cost?

The Orange Suit arrives too early for dinner and too late for lunch. He is so tall that Flat has to wrench his neck to see his face, heavy-set, and tattooed up to his chin. This one, like many of the others, looks like a thug.

A group of people in tactical gear march in behind him, their guns pointed at the floor for now. He smiles and waves at each of them. They do not return the gesture. They never do.

“Hands out.”

Flat complies. He lifts his wrists to the woman in tac gear that barked the order. The man in orange moves forward and slaps on the cuffs. The slightest flicker of confusion dampens Flat’s smile, but only for a second. “Where’re we going?”

No response from the man or the soldiers. The woman jerks her gun to the door. Three soldiers split from the group and exit. The butt of a gun taps Flat’s back. “Move.” He does.

The hallways are very similar to his room. The walls are white, and the floor is lacquered concrete. There are doors like his- steel with keypads to the right and labeled placards on the left. Each placard has a number. Flat cannot find any pattern. They jump from the thousands to the hundreds and back. Navigating in this building must be near impossible.

Their small procession hooks lefts and rights for nearly twenty minutes before stopping before an unlabeled door. There is a red light fixed above it. It is dim.

“This 9664?’

There is another woman in tac gear, clipboard in hand. A string of people in orange jumpsuits trail her. Some are familiar, but most are not. Flat renews his smile to the best of his ability.

“Yes.”

The new woman grunts. “Why do they always have to be kids?” Then she pinches the mic clipped to her collar. “Open the chamber.”

The metal door swings open on silent hinges. Two firm arms in orange canvas hook under his. Flat’s slippered toes skate across the floor as they carry him across the threshold. He offers no resistance.

After months of craving fresh scenery, this is not what Flat has hoped for, but it is a start. The ceiling and walls are as bland as ever, but the floor is interrupted by a metal shutter that is several meters wide and long. The door clicks shut. He cranes his neck around. None of the people in tac gear are left. There are only orange jumpsuits. None of them look thrilled to be there.

“Where is this?” Flat asks. He does not expect an answer, but one of the men clears his throat. 

“A testing chamber.” A woman elbows the man in the side. He goes down easily.

Flat jerks forward to help, but he cannot swing himself out of his captors’ firm grip. He surrenders quickly. “Are they going to hurt me again?” The discomfort on their faces says everything. An engine roars to life. The metal shutter on the floor starts to withdraw. His smile, still clinging to his lips, cracks. The liquid inside looks like water. The smell tells another story. “Are you going to put me in there?”

Someone clears their throat. Feet squeak on the floor. Flat considers struggling and then thinks better of it. “I know it’s not your fault,” he tells them. “You’re not doing this because you want to, right?” Of course they aren’t. None of the people in orange want to be around him. He wonders if they know what he did. What he is.

Metal thumps on metal as the shutter slips below the floor. The pool is deep. Flat doubts that he could reach the bottom even if his wrists weren’t bound. He flexes his fingertips and tries not to think about what it is filled with. The first thing he remembers after they raised a gun to his head was a room splattered in blood. They have destroyed his head twice now. He wonders if this time they intend to destroy his entire body. “I guess this is what you’re supposed to do with stuff like me,” he says to the room at large.

The grip on his left arm tightens, and his toes lift up, up, up off the floor. The man with the neck tattoo leans in. His voice is rough, like he has worn it screaming. “S’why this place exists. To destroy freaks like you.”

Flat dangles.

“And your friend. Though it was a hell of a lot easier to kill than you are.”

Flat’s jaw drops open, losing the tension of his smile. Friend? Jack was…

Jack?

It starts as a hiccup deep in his chest. He sucks air in. Heaves it back out. “They wha-”

“It’s dead, kid.” The man grunts. The arms under Flat’s lift him higher and swing him back. His feet tick-tock like pendulums. “It’s just you left.”

They swing him back and forth, gaining momentum. Flat has heard of fathers doing the same with their children. Flat never had parents. The people he described to Jack long ago never existed. Shifting memories of dinners and trips were as solid as clouds. Jack existed. They’d shared cold soup on warm days and warmth on cold nights. _(The water below his feet is not hot. He_ cannot _think about it.)_ Now Jack, and his parents, and his older brother, and the owner of that second sleeping bag are on even ground. It is not comforting.

Flat does not hear the twin grunts of the men hurling him over the pool. He does hear the crackle of water hitting the surface. And then he falls.

\--

There is a little splash-back when the skip hits the acid, though they’d been told to expect it. Carl and Haider step back, dodging the drops. The liquid sizzles and pops.

The kid splashes against the surface. Only a few more drops escape before he goes still. The water is an unpleasant reddish-brown, and the smell is crawling up through the air.

Someone gags.

The intercom crackles. “Approximately forty-three hours remain until projected regeneration, assuming SCP-9664 has not been terminated. The door will open. Prepare to exit the testing chamber.”

The D-Class personnel crowd around the door, pushing and shoving for the front of the crowd. Carl uses his superior strength to shoulder through. There is no present threat besides the smell and the memory of melting flesh. Not that that helps.

“All D-Class personnel. Prepare to exit the testing chamber _immediately._ ”

Carl cranes his neck over the crowd. A single D-class remains at the edge of the pool. The cut of his cheekbone visible past his hair is an unhealthy mix of green and white. Carl swears. He has survived long enough to know what that look means. He pushes back through the crowd and grabs the man’s shoulder. “Don’t just _stand_ there!”

The man is shaking, but his jaw is firm. “We can’t let them open that door,” he says.

And then the acid explodes.

\--

Whatever emerges from the acid is not Flat. It has his skin, his hair, his clothes, and his eyes, but it is not smiling. “Flat’s” slippers dangle from his toes and then drop, hitting the barren bottom of the empty tank. He flexes his fingers joint by joint, then his toes. There are screams and shouts, but they are irrelevant. He ignores them. Moving is more complicated than he remembers. There are so many hinges and sockets, each with its own set of muscles.

There are cameras set deep into the walls, black against the white. He looks into one. Through it. And _then_ he smiles.

\--

The video feed does not cut this time. SCP-9664 smiles serene on the LCD display.

D-Class personnel are scattered throughout the room like toys. One topples into the pit in her attempt to flee. The snap of her neck is a mercy.

SCP-9664’s attention slips to one of the men that dumped him in the acid. His eyebrows knit together. “Flat didn’t want it to come to this,” he sighs. The man smiles back, mouth straining. His eyes do not follow. SCP-9664 sighs. “But I guess that things don’t always work out the way he wants.” The man folds in half.

Screams short the speakers. Dr. Weaver presses a palm over his ear and cranks the volume down. He is not fast enough. The distinctive cracks of bone stabbing through tissue snap through. The other personnel huddle in a back corner. One soldier checks the magazine in her gun.

The snaps and cracks settle into the slap of meat hammered against a surface. There D-class is a film of gore on the floor. SCP-9664 rotates on his axis. Another man snaps and folds. He only has a second to scream before his lungs collapse.

Most of the D-Class personnel have stopped running. Several are sobbing. One is curled, despondent over the contents of his stomach. None of them bang on the door. They know better than to hope.

“Flat doesn’t want you to suffer,” SCP-9664 reassures the room. “But isn’t this better than getting tossed to the wolves every day? Not that we’re all monsters! Well- maybe I am.” His sentence is punctuated by another shriek. Another squelch. “But Flat wants to live, and I have important things to do, so there’s nothing Flat can do about it. Oh!” He turns his teeth back to the security cameras. Another two D-Class collapse across the flooring. “That means that I’ll have to take care of you too. It’s getting easier to come back from this stuff, but Flat’s not a fan of the pain.”

The soldiers flick the safeties off their weapons and swing into the hallway. Dr. Weaver primes the system for a containment breach. The skip’s surprise is hardly audible above the commotion.

“Huh? I missed one?” SCP-9664 wafts down until his toes are inches above the tainted concrete.

One D-Class remains. His uniform is stained in blood and vomit, and he is drawing blood from his clenched fists, but he meets SCP-9664 head-on. The skip floats closer, rising just a bit until their faces are level. “Oh! I recognize you! You brought us food a few times!”

One breath in. One breath out. The D-Class grits his teeth. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

SCP-9664’s eyes fly wide. He bobs, almost dropping to the ground before floating back up. “What do you mean?”

“What do I,” The man pinches the skin between his eyebrows, pushing wrinkles on wrinkles. “You are well-aware that we are not doing this of our own free will. You said as much yourself. _Fuck-_ You even said you understood why it was necessary! So, what do you think you’re doing?” His arm goes wide, gesturing at the splattered remains. 

This time the skip does fall. His feet scramble for traction, miss, and the D-Class yanks him up by the arm.

Dr. Weaver’s hand drips sweat over the alarm.

“You are throwing a tantrum!”

“Flat,”

In a shocking show of strength, the D-Class’s hand snaps around the frame of the skip’s face and lifts. “ _Those people_ have made absolute asses of themselves, saying it’s about protecting the world or whatever bullshit. But you aren’t a child. You should know better than to follow their example.”

The skip goes quiet. His feet tick-tock-tick-tock in the air.

“Are you done?”

Muffled by the palm encroaching on his mouth, SCP-9664 mumbles a tiny “yes.”

The D-Class’s fingers snap open and the skip falls to the floor. There is a beat of silence. Then a yelp. The skip scrambles over the clotted ground. He nearly slips into the pool, but the man catches him. He clings back, and both of them shake in time. “What happened?” asks the skip. Then, “Did I do this?” and finally, “I did this. I’m a monster”

A sharp voice cuts through the skip’s concerns. “No. They were the monsters first.” The D-class’s hand moves to cover his eyes as if it is the sight turning his stomach. “So your name’s Flat?”

“Flat Escardos,” The skip asserts. His head collapses against the D-Class’s collarbone, eyes drooping. “Who’re you?”

The man lowers a reluctant hand on his head. His fingers twitch, searching for a cigarette. “Waver Velvet.”

“That’s a cool name,” he breathes, and closes his eyes.

-

Dr. Weaver wipes his palms on his pants and cancels the alarm, cussing his way through every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank Vitriol for helping me a lot with this one since I don't understand nearly as much Japanese. 
> 
> Also I can't believe we both possess precognition.


	9. Arriving Unannounced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a visitor. Neither of them are happy about it.

Meals slide in and out of the slot under the door like a cuckoo clock. The door itself hardly opens. There have not been any interviews as of late. The people of the Foundation have gotten everything they wanted out of Jack. Now all they need to do is contain them.

Jack tears through books and returns them at a rapid pace, but they never seem to run out. They wonder how many books the Foundation has. They wonder who picks them.

Their recent reads are mostly murder mysteries. Maybe their captors are taunting them, or if maybe it is a misguided attempt to sate their urges. If it is the latter, it is not working. They can feel the itch building, building, building under their skin in the same way it always does.

No one comes through the door.

Jack’s pace slows to a book every two days, to a week, to three weeks. They hardly set their books down when they are not eating or sleeping, and appetite and sleep are hard to come by. Paragraphs imprint on their cornea from staring.

It itches.

Jack thinks their captors can tell.

The meals keep coming though Jack does not eat them. The tray slides in through the slot and, several hours later, slips back out. Jack tried to watch once. All they saw was a pair of tongs- not a hint of blood under flesh.

Deprivation only makes the itch worse.

Sometimes, when it gets too much to read or eat or sleep, they distract themself with thoughts of Flat. They do not know if he is alive or dead. What they do know is that they’d never seen anyone smile quite like him. It was genuinely happy. It was a smile that made his eyes shine. Now it just burns.

Jack closes their eyes and tries to remember what Flat looked like. On the loneliest nights they mold their appearance to his.

They wish they had a mirror.

\--

One day Jack’s dinner arrives with a rush of noise.

The slat snaps shut, severing it from hearing.

Jack knows that noise.

Knows panic.

\--

Jack is testing the tension of their skin with their nails when they hear the first latch. They close their eyes and breathe in. Their senses have never failed them, no matter how often they’d wondered during their time with Flat. But now the itch is drowning out everything else. (They think they’d do anything if it meant relief.)

The second latch clicks and the door swings in.

Jack’s eyes sting from the shock holding them open.

A man steps in.

His skin is pale, his hair hangs just past his shoulders, and his orange uniform drapes loose over his shoulders.

_Pale. Jack can see the blood beating through his veins._

Is this a gift? It must be. Their captors know how dangerous they are. Know the signs of an impending attack.

Jack has to clench their hands in the sheets to hold themself back.

The man takes one look at them and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead then back down. Then his lips pinch together in the picture of displeasure. “I survive, and they reward me with a death sentence. Why am I surprised?” Confident steps carry him over the threshold. The door slams shut behind him.

Jack’s mind ricochets between two extremes. They wonder how they can rip this man’s skin from his bones. They wonder how he can be so calm.

“And then they picked you of all people to finish the job! Really, they’re just as sadistic as any of the things they lock away.” He stalks past Jack and snatches the book from his mattress. Flips it over. Examines the synopsis. Slaps it against his palm. “And sadistic _to_ them too. Is this their idea of a sick joke? It’s like dangling cocaine in front of an addict.”

The book flips back through the air. Jack catches it in their twitching hands. They stare. “You know they can hear you,” they say, though they don’t know why.

He scoffs at the camera. “Let them hear! They’ve locked me in this room with a compulsive killer. I’m entitled to give them a piece of my mind.” Then he rolls back his upper lip. “I can’t exactly stop you from doing whatever you want, but I don’t suppose you’ll give me a few more hours to finish speaking my mind?”

The itch is there, but it feels manageable. The curiosity bites harder. “What did you mean by ‘me of all people?’”

“It’s that face.”

“Face?” Jack’s appearance flickers as they try to remember who they’re wearing. Short, unruly hair. The slightest scarring on their fingers from one too many botched can openings. “You know him?”

“Know him?” The man half laughs, half coughs. “He nearly killed me!”

Jack forgets to feel the itch. They lurch forward. “He’s alive?”

“And so are you,” the man observes, “Which isn’t what they told him just before he turned five people into bloody _pancakes_.”

Jack feels like the earth is shaking out from under them again. Their heart threatens to rise. It threatens to drop. It threatens to downright explode in their chest, leaving nothing but empty confusion, because Flat Escardos is alive, and that means _everything_. They do not know what to say. Instead, they echo. “Five people?”

“Well, now they’re mincemeat.” The man pushes his palm through his hair and taps his heel against the concrete. “The bastards running this place had it coming after all they’ve done to him, but he took it out on us instead.” He must read the question in Jack’s eyes. He wrinkles his nose. “They kept him drugged most of the time until that stopped working. They’re always having us draw blood and take more skin samples than he has skin to spare. I’ve had them give me a script full of abusive nonsense on more than one occasion. They’re torturing him, all in the name of ‘saving the world.’ A crock of bullshit if you ask me. I’m sure he could destroy this whole place if he had half a mind.”

Jack thinks they prefer the itch to this feeling. They drop their head between their shoulders and lower their voice. “It would be better if they just killed him.” It is a cry for mercy, but it feels sick on their tongue. They wish they had water to wash the taste out.

“They can’t.”

Jack looks up.

“Two days ago, he came out of a pit of industrial acid without so much as a blister. Then he squashed five people flat and quite literally frightened a sixth to death. If they could kill him, he’d be dead.”

“I… See.” Jack laced their fingers together and traced the scars. No matter how many times Flat managed to cut himself on jagged lids, no matter how long it took for the wounds to heal or how he refrained from picking at his scabs, they remained.

_I’m certain he still believes he’s one hundred percent human, even now._

But that was the Flat they knew. Flat, laughing off his mistake the third time he’d ripped a hole in the side of their nylon tent. Flat catching his breath after an hour’s rant about his favorite game.

(Flat telling them to get rid of evidence. Flat dangling in the air as twenty-seven people winked out of existence.)

“It would probably be for the best if they could kill him,” Jack admits.

The man leans against the wall. His fingers twitch to the logo on his clothing like they are searching for a breast pocket. They find nothing and drop back to his side. “You’re acting awfully surprised by the news. You are his friend, aren’t you?”

These are all questions Jack’s been asked before, but the tone is new. It is not an accusation or a demand. They know understanding when they hear it, though it’s only ever been from Flat’s lips. “I don’t think that he deserves to die,” they confess. “He’s a good person. Much better than me.”

“But he needs to die,” The man concludes. “Even I can see that he’s a frightened brat. But I can’t say the people here are wrong. Just his existence is dangerous. How long did you say you were with him?”

“A year and a half.”

“Are you _mad?_ ”

“I didn’t know _._ ” The itch nags at the back of Jack’s mind just long enough to remind them it exists. “He was a little strange, but I never saw him hurt a fly until they caught up with us.” Jack was supposed to be the monster. Jack _had_ been the monster. “I thought he was an ordinary,” a pause, “A little strange, definitely. But not like that.”

There is a strange set to the man’s face. His next words come out slow, like he is lining them up as he speaks. “Then that strange power only appeared when the Foundation tried to capture you?”

Jack does not need to think to know that is not true. They have had nothing but memories since they arrived.

After reality ripped, Jack reviewed the idiosyncrasies they’d been storing away since the moment they’d met Flat. There were two sleeping bags instead of one because he wanted Jack to be comfortable. There was always just enough money to keep them fed because he was hungry. A fall that should have broken Jack’s leg did not. No one witnessed Jack’s murders, even in the light of day. Flat always knew when the Foundation was coming.

“I noticed that something was off, but I don’t think that he did. Based on the kind of questions they asked when I got here, I don’t think that the Foundation knew about him either.” Jack can feel their throat start scraping around the words. They know why it hurts. They wish they didn’t. “He’s a good kid. He knew what I was right from the start, but he just kept trying to help.”

The silence of racing thoughts is suffocating.

Jack tries to distract themself by reading the lines etches in their visitor’s face. It feels too much like reading a book. Jack remembers the itch. Squashes it down. They don’t mind killing, but they think they’d mind killing him. “What’s your name?”

“Waver Velvet.”

Words that reflect weakness and luxury. The name does not suit him at all. Under different circumstances Jack might want to laugh. They tell him their name.

“A little underwhelming for a shape-shifting killer.”

Jack does laugh at that. “I’m sure that Flat would have some ideas for a new one if you told him that. But I like this one.”

“Well, if you insist.” 

The intercom crackles to life. “Please approach the anomaly.”

Waver rounds on the camera with a glare that leaves no thoughts to the imagination. But he pulls the irritation back in and drops to sit on the bed where his knee nudges up against Jack’s. Jack recoils. Waver grabs their hand and holds it up. “Is this close enough for you?”

Apparently, it is. There are no further orders.

Stunned, Jack hardly notices when their thumb drifts up to press against Waver’s wrist. His face is annoyed, but his heart is racing.

Heart.

Jack jerks their hand away, scrambling to the head of the bed. For the first time their expression suits Flat’s face. “Are _you_ crazy?” Their hand rises and falls. They trap their wrists under their legs. “Do you know how hard this is for me?” It is asphyxiating from holding their breath. It is dying of thirst in front of a glass of water. It is torture.

But Waver rolls his eyes, looking or all the world like an exasperated tutor. “You give yourself far too little credit. You don’t want to hurt me, so you won’t.” It is just similar and different enough from Flat’s own response that Jack knows it’s true.

The staff make them wait another hour before they open the door.

Waver leaves unharmed.


	10. A day in the life of Waver Velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the eyes of Waver Velvet, a summary of the events that have transcribed between him and the two newest anomalies of the site.

His name was Waver Velvet. Rank: D-class.

Not that anyone remembered it. He didn’t expect them to, either, as no one in the Foundation took the time and effort of remembering the names of those that were considered as little more than disposable goods for the sake of the “Greater good.”

Oh, how he hated that term. Even the mere thought of it was enough to make him grit his teeth, his stomach twisting into knots from stress.

His story was both similar and fundamentally different from his fellow D-class. Surrounded by prisoners for an assortment of crimes, he did not go a day without believing it would be his last. Perhaps an anomaly would kill him. Perhaps one of his fellow agents.

A few years ago, he had been a simple university lecturer. His assortment of degrees had allowed him to teach a varied amount of courses, but if he had to pick a favorite, it would have been those for his education majors. There had always been something so satisfying in knowing that he was molding the next generation of professors and teachers—it had felt like he was doing good in the world.

And yet—

“Esteemed university professor is found dead in his office.”

Years could pass, and the sight of Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald lifeless in his chair, with his head threatening to fall from its own shoulders, was still burned in the back of Waver Velvet’s eyelids.

The police had looked into the case for months. The case was a popular one, attracting local and national press alike as the police worked to solve the case. And yet nothing about Sola Ui’s affair with a doctorate student had been so much as mentioned.

Only Waver’s distinct animosity with his superior and an argument that occurred mere hours before he had found the man’s nearly decapitated corpse in that same room seemed to ever interest the detectives and judges alike. Proof over proof that he was never even aware of piled on top of Waver like the world’s slowest crucifixion.

First degree murder. A lifetime in jail.

At first, he protested. There was no way, there had to be foul play of some sort. Then, he began to doubt himself. Seeing it on the news, on the interviewer’s face as they assumed that he was the murderer—perhaps he  _ had _ done it. If he had argued for longer, or if he hadn’t been there at all, or perhaps, perhaps perhaps  _ perhaps— _

None of it mattered now. In the hands of Foundation, none of it mattered. As a D-class agent, he might as well have been put on death row—but at least those people had the courtesy of knowing  _ when _ they would die.

In this place, death could come from anywhere, at any time. Most of the time, it came from the field missions. Capturing anomalies would often result in more casualties than what would go into the records; it didn’t matter since they were meant to be expendable. But death could also come from the test chambers or even from the containment cells themselves. Even the simple act of leaving food for a subject came with the risk of death if they were dangerous enough.

He had seen all sorts of death in the year he had spent in the Foundation. Being ripped to shreds, succumbing to radiation sickness, mysterious illnesses, being bled dry—Waver had seen it all and more. No horror movie could compare to the things he had seen in this single year.

All the cellmates that had been brought with him were in their graves—well, those they could recover bodies for.

He was the only one left.

Every night, he wondered when his luck would finally run out, and he’d end up in a grave of his own. The thought always brought forth a sour laugh—no one would even be there to mourn him if he died. If that wasn’t a sad life, then he didn’t know what it was.

He thought that, maybe, his luck would finally run out the day that he met SCP-9664.

From the moment that he opened the door for the first time with a tray of food in his hands, he knew that this anomaly was not like the other Keters that he had dealt with in the past. And with his tenure, he had dealt with many.

His gaze was unfocussed, staring at nothing in particular. The scrubs clung loosely to his thin frame, and a majority of the orange synthetic fabric was stained in a dark red. The wall behind him was also stained a deep red, and Waver could swear that, if he looked hard enough, he could still see bits of bone stuck to it.

A mere two days before, this skip’s head had been blown to smithereens by the force of a single bullet. The thought of it sent shivers down Waver’s spine, filling it with a primal sort of fear that he swears he hadn’t felt before in this place, even when facing anomalies that did not appear even remotely human.

But perhaps that was exactly why this one in particular was so frightening to both him and everyone else assigned to him. It looked, breathed, and even acted like a human—but his  _ essence  _ was simply not human. Even describing it as alien was to put it lightly. It was simply something else entirely, and Waver doubted that any of the researchers on top would ever be able to begin to understand.

“Huh…?”

A hoarse whisper as audible as a siren takes Waver out of his thoughts, shoulders tensing in alert and fear as his green eyes fall on the anomaly that rouses from his daze. “Lunchtime.” He manages to say, trying to swallow the fear that threatens to make his knees cave in.

SCP-9664 blinks a few times, almost as if waking up from a nap— _ he had his entire skull destroyed, _ Waver reminds himself—and glances from the cheap tray with equally cheap food to the person holding it. “Thank you so much, sir!”

The anomaly smiles.

To Waver, it barely looks like a smile at all. Like the rest of the anomaly, it  _ looked _ like a smile at first glance, but the essence of it…did not. It was like a perpetual mask, stretched to its farthest limits. If he looked any closer, perhaps he would be able to see the cracks in the façade that the boy was so desperately trying to keep up.

Even though he had become aware of his inhumanity, Waver could see that he was still clinging to that piece of humanity like a lifeline. Perhaps it was all he had left to cling to.

Ignoring the way that his stomach tied itself into knots, he sets the tray down on the bed. He ignores the blood spatter behind the boy and he  _ definitely _ ignores the chipper ‘Goodbye!’ that follows him out of the door of the containment cell.

Waver sees him a couple times before the day that “thing” came out of the pit of acid. 

Its eyes are lifeless, like filled holes that could see through everything. With a smile serene enough for Waver to consider alien, it bends and tears apart the other class D agents like he was folding and ripping pieces of paper. He watches as a younger girl is bent to the point that her spine snaps in two, ripping through her skin. Another had his limbs torn off like they belonged to a doll. The third falls and snaps their neck, before falling into the pit of acid that the Skip had just floated out of. They break their neck, and Waver considers it a mercy kill. He envies them.

Now, amidst the carnage, only he remained. His own uniform was ruined in his own vomit and other’s blood and his legs felt like they could give out at any moment, but he remained standing. 

Why?

_ Why him? _

**_Why did he get to live?_ **

Each step that he takes towards the anomaly feels like he’s walking towards Death itself. And when it turns around, acknowledging him--he feels it.

He feels death. 

Once.

Twice.

Thrice. 

It is like something is trying to grab him. Trying to twist him, just like the others.

And yet, Death never comes. He never feels the twist that the others must have surely felt.

Every step he takes feels more shaky than the last, and by the time that he is in front of the anomaly he’s certain that his legs will give way underneath him and that he’ll be sent tumbling into the pit and that he’ll break his neck. Or worse. And yet he grits his teeth, barking at the monster that floats in the air. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

It seems to take the anomaly by surprise, judging from the way that its concentration falters and it nearly falls. “What do you mean?” It almost sounds innocent. Like a child that didn’t know better.

“What do I-“ Waver pinches the bridge of his nose—unbelievable! How the hell did it not understand the gravity of its actions? “You are well-aware that we are not doing this of our own free will. You said as much yourself. Fuck- You even said you understood why it was necessary! So, what do you think you’re doing?” 

The Skip falters. Falls. And Waver is the one that pulls them, gripping his arm to keep him in place. In his chest, he feels a sense of urgency rising. He does not want to die. And while he’s certain that the anomaly  _ should _ die, he does not want them to die either. He has to solve this quickly, before they call for a containment breach—if that’s even possible anymore. 

“You’re throwing a tantrum!” 

Before SCP-9664 can give any rebuttal, Waver does something that shocks even him. He grabs both sides of the anomaly’s face, lifting him up with a strength that even he was not aware that he had. 

There’s a tense silence in the room, and Waver doesn’t notice that his legs are no longer shaking. Instead, he speaks up in a voice that is laced with anger. 

“Are you done?”

Another bit of silence. The anomaly thinks, practically motionless—and then it answers, voice muffled by the palm over his mouth. “Yes.”

Only then does Waver drop him. 

He falls to the floor with a dull thud, scrubs and hands dyeing themselves in the blood and guts of some unfortunate person. And only then, does the skip’s expression turn with horror and shock, nearly stumbling back into acid pit that he had come from just minutes ago. Without thinking, Waver grabs his arm, pulling him close. 

“Did I do this?” The anomaly asks, with an expression that looked far more human than what he had seen from him five minutes ago. Far more human than what he saw from even his own bosses. And then, a look of defeated resignation as he puts two and two together in his head. “I did this. I’m a monster.” 

“No.” Waver finds himself saying, not paying attention to just how confused he is by his own rebuttal. He had seen this thing bend people out of shape, throwing them around like they were nothing more than rag dolls. Anyone with common sense would have immediately agreed and considered this  _ thing _ a monster. 

And yet—

His gaze moved from the boy that rests his head on his shoulder and towards one of the unfeeling cameras on the ceiling. Towards the researchers that had pushed SCP-9664 to this state.

“They were the monsters first.”

That defiance does not last too long, however, as entire situation is quickly catching up with Waver and his weak stomach. The stench of blood and acid are strong and sickening, but his first priority is talking down the skip that leans tiredly against him. Perhaps even they have a limit? “So your name is Flat?”

“Flat Escardos.” Flat’s eyes close, his chest rising and falling at a slow pace. “Who’re you?” 

“Waver Velvet.” He wants a smoke. There are no cigarettes here.

The skip laughs softly, tiredly. “That’s a cool name…” and passes out.

When Waver Velvet sees Dr. Weaver, he fantasizes with breaking his nose. Instead, he accepts the empty compliments that come from the researcher— _ you saved the Foundation, Waver Velvet. Your loyalty will never be forgotten.  _

The moment he arrived to his room, he drank himself to sleep with a cheap bottle of whiskey in one hand—there was no other way he would have been able to sleep. 

—

Waver’s so called “loyalty” is forgotten in merely two days. Or perhaps The Foundation has decided to see how far they can push it, see if they can somehow break the man that stared at Death’s face and lived to tell the tale. 

(It was not a tale that he wanted to tell  _ anyone _ , not even the superiors that wished to interview him. “Look up the damn recordings, if you’re that curious,” he would bark.) 

Whether it was for one reason or the other, the fact was that he now found himself in the room of another anomaly—it only takes one look at them for Waver to feel his blood run cold.

The face of SCP-9664 was staring right back at him, blue eyes wide.

But it takes  _ another _ look at them to realize that something is not right, either. Starting from the fact that The Foundation would never allow moving a Keter class anomaly into the floor for Euclid and Safe SCPs, it’s also the look in their eyes that tells Waver something different.

They looked far more human than the eyes of the SCP-9664 he had seen a couple days prior. They were eyes that held an intense bloodlust, but also a sense of building anxiety and terror behind them, as if they were breaking apart at the seams. It was all so pitiful, even to someone as depressing as Waver, but also so incredibly  _ human _ that he had no doubt when coming to the conclusion that he was dealing with someone entirely different. 

Not that it made his anxiety lessen in any way, however, as his stomach is practically doing flips now. “I survive, and they reward me with a death sentence. Why am I surprised?” Amidst his complains, he makes his way into the room, aware of the blue eyes that follow his movements, almost as if trying to unravel him with his gaze alone. He hears the door shut behind him—he’s aware that he is staring at Death once more.

And he continues his complaining. “And then they picked you of all people to finish the job! Really, they’re just as sadistic as any of the things they lock away.” Picking up a book, the study the contents of it before curling his lip in disgust. He had always been a fan of murder mysteries, but in this situation? Ridiculous! “ And sadistic to them too. Is this their idea of a sick joke? It’s like dangling cocaine in front of an addict.”

From the look on their face, it’s obvious that this was not the response that they were expecting from someone like him. Perhaps they expected him to cower in fear and beg for their life? Waver was far beyond that. Whether it was by the hands of this SCP, by 9664 or any other one of the many anomalies that The Foundation kept, it would be no different. Death would still be death, and Waver would be there to wait for it. In the meantime, he would kick and complain as much as he could.

It seems that his behavior only confused the skip further. They ask about the wording of Waver’s first complaint, and it opens a whole new can of worms for the ex-professor to complain about. 

“It’s that face.” He grumbles, watching how the anomaly reaches for their own face, tentatively feeling for it--perhaps they had forgotten that they were turned into someone? 

And then, he sees the realization creep into their eyes, curiosity slowly mixing into what was once only bloodlust and insanity. “You know him?” They ask, and Waver can swear that they see their heart leap into their throat. 

“Know him?! He nearly killed me!” 

The way that the shapeshifter nearly falls off the bed from that statement alone would be comical in any situation besides this one. The way their voice breaks when they ask if their friend both serves as confirmation of this anomaly’s identity and also manages to make Waver’s chest ache with a dull pain. 

“And so are you.” He says, eyebrows knit together in a deep frown as he realizes what this means. “Which isn’t what they told him just before he turned five people into bloody pancakes.”

The look on the anomaly’s face was one of confusion, as if everything that Waver said was too much for them to handle. He wouldn’t be able to blame them, either--it’s still too much for him as well. It would always be.

And they talk. 

They talk about SCP-9664, the anomaly that the shapeshifter knew as Flat Escardos. Though the constant talk about something that had been the cause of his most recent trauma made Waver’s stomach turn unpleasantly, part of him was curious to know more about their lives together; he heard they had been caught together.

According to them, they had been travelling for a year and a half. Waver almost couldn’t believe it. The SCP he knew couldn’t go more than a week without making someone or something disappear or distort--how the hell did this one survive over a  _ year _ with them?! 

For a second, Waver wonders if the skip’s supernatural nature had only become present the moment they had been captured; as a response to stress perhaps. But the shapeshifter continues, talking about how Flat had always acted somewhat strange, but never threatening enough to warrant any real fright. That they were sure that he had never noticed anything wrong with himself in the first place. 

In other words, Flat’s ability as a Reality Bender had always been present with him. 

In other words, it was only after Jack’s capture that his powers had manifested in a hostile manner. 

He looks to the side, picturing the boy that always tried to keep up a smile, even to a room of people that were about to throw him into a pit of acid. The boy that forced himself to smile even after having his skin ripped off, organs pulled out, his fingers cut off, and his head blown off. 

While there was no doubt that the  _ thing _ that came out of the pit of acid was hostile, it did not match with either Flat Escardos that Waver had encountered or the one from the shapeshifter’s recollections. 

From the way it had talked, too, it was safe to assume that Flat was not the only one in that body. Perhaps he was a seal, a sort of power delimiter for whatever lurked underneath--Waver could not say for sure. 

What he  _ was _ certain about was the fact that, without Flat Escardos, they would  _ all  _ be in great danger. And, as per usual, The Foundation was walking blindly towards their own destruction, as he had no doubt that whatever delimiter was set on the thing, it was reaching its limit-- _ cracking _ under the pressure. It was that sort of incompetence that absolutely irritated Waver, whether it was a student foolishly feeling their way through a research project, or a worldwide foundation that prided themselves on saving the world from its own dangers. 

Somehow, Waver would have to undo the damage that the Foundation had done.

But first, he would have to survive this.

The skip is the one that pulls Waver out of his own thoughts, asking for his name. He tells them his name.

“I’m Jack.”

Waver scoffs. “A little underwhelming for a shapeshifting serial killer.” 

When he hears Jack laugh back, he feels a slight sense of relief. He had considered both them and Flat crazy for travelling together for a year and a half just a few minutes ago, but he was beginning to notice why the Reality Bender had taken a liking to them. Perhaps it was because of him that they were able to have such a normal conversation with someone, instead of immediately lunging at them, thirsting for blood.

As they chatter nonsense, the intercom comes to life with a crackle.

“Please approach the anomaly.”

Waver’s blood  _ boils _ .

They  _ wanted _ Jack to kill him. As if they were dangling a piece of meat over a starving dog,  _ expecting _ them to follow their murderous instincts. 

And yet, he had no other option. He was little more that a prisoner himself, and he would not be allowed to leave until the researchers either got bored or until they got all that they needed to prove that the anomaly was a cold-blooded killer. Whether or not Waver left in a body bag meant little to those above. 

So Waver moves. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, their knees touching. When he grabs Jack’s hands, Waver swears that he can hear the shapeshifter grit their teeth together as they resist the urge that is most very likely ingrained into their very soul. 

Waver’s heart races, and not in a good way. He’s certain that he’s going to be sick at any moment now, but he puts a strong front. 

Jack’s thumb traces his wrist’s pulse point, and recoils violently back to the edge of the bed. “Are you  _ crazy?! _ ” When they speak, their voice is tight, as if someone had a hand around their throat, choking them. Perhaps they were the one choking themselves, trying to reign themselves in. “Do you know how hard this is for me?!”

But Waver merely scoffs at the serial killer, ignoring the way that his heart threatens to jump out of his chest and how his legs shake with anxiety. He has seen enough of this anomaly to lay down his judgement. “You give yourself far too little credit. You don’t want to hurt me, so you won’t.”

Jack stares at him in stunned silence, hugging their knees in an attempt to make themselves as small as possible and as far away from Waver as possible. They look like a fish out of water for what might be a good minute, before they close their eyes and take in a shaky breath. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

Waver can almost  _ see _ how the shapeshifter fights their own urges. It’s a struggle that goes on for at least five minutes, and he’s certain that Jack must have imagined slitting his throat more than a couple times during that time. It’s a thought that sends shivers down his spine.

But after those five minutes that seem to last forever, Jack opens their eyes, and gives Waver a shaky smile. “So what did you do before coming here?” They ask, their voice still like a taut string. 

“I was a professor,” Waver responds.

That only seemed to confuse them. “How does a professor end up in a place like this?”

A pause. “I was arrested for murder.” 

The look on Jack’s face is one of such surprise, that Waver can’t help but huff from his nose. “What? Scared of me? If it makes you feel better, I didn’t do it.”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to scoff. “I knew that,” They shrug. “I’ve met many people like myself in my life--no offense, sir, but you’d make for a terrible killer.”

“None taken.”

They chat idly for about an hour. About life in London--Jack’s hometown, Waver finds out--and about all sorts of books, from mysteries to fiction to even biographies. Little by little, he watched as the anxiety that shadowed the shapeshifter seemed to ebb away--though never fully leaving. He doubted it ever would, and that it was that which impulsed them to kill, like a horrible compulsion.

He hears the door unlock, a telltale sign that their time had come to an end. Waver stands up, adjusting the hideous orange uniform that defined his life, before turning towards Jack, who stares back at him.

They don’t say a word. Not audibly, at least. But they move their lips anyways, asking Waver for a single request. 

_ “Please tell him I’m okay.” _

Waver does not answer verbally, instead relying on a quick nod before turning his back on Jack as he walks out of the door.

It’s only once he’s outside that he says a single word, one that embodies his emotions towards the entire situation. 

**_“Fuck.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please follow me at @glascheit on the bird hell site, twitter dot com!


	11. Happy Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flat receives two unexpected visitors.

Another day, another alarm. Waver drags himself from his cot and grits his eyes against his cell’s fluorescent lights. The other cot is empty. It has been that way for nearly a week and a half. The isolation is part comfort, part concern. So is the way that the researchers have been looking at him lately. For D-Class personnel, any attention is generally bad attention, and he has not been subtle about his dislike of the Foundation and its methods.

They have not re-assigned him at least. He continues to bring food to several Euclid-class humanoid SCPs. It is a cushy job. The others in the cafeteria seem jealous.

He does not know how to feel about it. Rather than dwell, he grabs a change of clothing and his towel and makes his way to the showers.

He reports to his post at eight o’clock sharp. His enthusiasm is inversely proportional to his punctuality. One of the cooks jerks his thumb at a set of six trays. Waver frowns. There is one more tray than any day out of the week before. He’s been given additional duties.

On the rare occasions that the researchers added a new SCP to his rounds, an agent met him in the kitchen to give him a briefing on the dos and don’ts. Everyone in sight is dressed in D-Class clothing or aprons and hair nets. He glared at the slips of paper taped to each tray. This one would go to Jack. This one to the old woman down the hall. And this one…

The numbers “9664” stared back up at him.

Waver did not know whether to smile or scream.

\--

Waver left Flat’s tray for last, but during his first delivery, he dropped by Dr. Weaver’s office to ask for a favor. He’d looked at him like he’d grown a second head but said that he would see what he could do.

Thirty minutes later, Waver is in front of Flat’s door with his breakfast in hand. A young man in body armor stands next to him. Waver looks up to the intercom.

“You have ten minutes. Sigma- if he refuses to leave after his time is up, you have permission to terminate him.”

The man with the gun nods.

“I don’t intend to take more than five,” Waver grumbles.

“This thing’s already shown us how much he cares about others’ intentions. We’re not taking any risks. Not even for you. First door opening.”

The door swings open before Waver has the opportunity to parse his meaning.

\--

Someone must have scrubbed the last of the bloodstains from the wall, though the bullet hole remains. They’d slapped paint over it, but it is large enough that it is impossible to miss.

Flat sits statue still on his bed, staring at nothing. He does not turn his head. Does not give the slightest indication that he has heard Waver walk in. In that instant, Waver knows that this is not the Flat who’d dropped into his arms.

This is the thing that came out of that acid bath and left him a sole survivor.

“Why are you here?”

Waver sighs and sets the tray down on the ground. He can feel a headache coming on, but it is not the specter of death that brushed against him in that lab. “I went to a lot of trouble to talk with you,” he says.

‘Flat’ seems unimpressed, but he does turn to look. “Flat thought you were dead. But we both know that you aren’t the sort of person that would die that easily.”

Waver is not sure what he knows. All he knows is the exhaustion that comes with missing a hundred deaths and anticipating a thousand more. This place, this building, this organization is a twisted series of thoughts half-spoken. He hates it.

“I need to talk to Flat,” he says instead.

“Flat’s taking a nap right now. Come back later.”

“There’s no guarantee there _will_ be a later.” Waver’s eyes dart to the camera. Its light winks back at him. “Bring him out.”

‘Flat’ meets his eyes. They are a little like Flat’s in that they are blue and deep. But in the depths of Flat’s ocean there is something glowing. This thing is only void. “No.”

It is final. Waver can feel the seconds ticking down to the beat of his pulse. He thinks back. There’d been a moment of memory. Realization. Apologies. “He’ll remember what I tell you,” he says, more to confirm than ask.

“Who knows,” ‘Flat’ says, sing-song.

With muscle memory that should have faded long ago, he summons the look he’d give to students texting in his class. “Your friend Jack is alive.”

Reality shivers.

Flat’s mouth dangles open, flexing like a fish. The whites of his eyes make his irises look very, very small. “Really?”

There’s a bounce to his voice that Waver knows even through the loss. He sighs. “Welcome back, Flat.”

Flat is on him in seconds, hovering just outside of too close. “Really? You saw them? But that guy said- You mean that was a lie? What did they say? Are they hurt? Where are they? I want to see them!” 

The walls are soundproofed, but not enough that Waver can’t hear the latch of the first door. He presses Flat back with his hands on his shoulders. His enthusiasm combined with worry is a dizzying combination. He can feel a headache coming on. “They’re just fine. I told them you were safe. For a given value of the word.”

The second door snaps open. Sigma’s gun is not trained on either of them, but the way he carries himself suggests that it _could_ be. “Your visit is over.”

Waver raises his hands to shoulder height. He backs away. Flat’s body tilts towards him as if he wants to follow, though he knows he can’t. Waver would find it sad if Flat did not look so happy.

He lets Sigma lead him through the imitation airlock. The doors seal shut behind them. Dr. Weaver is waiting outside.

“What the hell was that?” he says in exactly the tone of voice Waver was expecting. He has one arm crossed over the other like an angry teacher.

Waver has been to graduate school. He has not just imitated that look: He has _perfected_ it. He raises his eyebrow just to show he can and cocks his head back to the cell door. “Tell me- What did you have them tell that boy just before he murdered those other D-Class?”

“You were there,” Dr. Weaver grunts.

“As were you. And as the man in charge of his containment, I am sure that you know what happened during his initial containment.”

“And how do you know that?”

“His friend told me,” Waver scoffs. “The one that you told him was dead.” Sigma shifts at his back. Waver slows his speech the way he would with a child. “Isn’t it possible that he reacts like that when he’s trying to protect himself and his friend?”

Dr. Weaver stares as if he’s grown a second head. Or perhaps not. Waver is sure that the ‘good’ doctor has seen much stranger things than a few extra body parts. He has seen so many strange things that he has forgotten how to treat a child.

Not for the first time that week or even that day, Waver waits for punishment or death.

He does not receive either.

One long drag of the eyes, and Dr. Weaver breathes out through his teeth. “What did you say you did before all of this?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Right.” He gestures down the hall in the direction of the cafeteria. “Care for a coffee?”

It is not what Waver expected to hear, but he’ll take it.

\--

Jack is in their room.

No.

Jack is somewhere else entirely.

It looks like their room. The walls are the same plain white, and the bed has the same sad sheets. Sheets that were tucked neatly around the corners when they sat down to eat their breakfast. Sheets that were not knotted in a ball at their feet. A breakfast that is not there anymore, save for the biodegradable spork in their hand.

“ _Jack?_ ”

There is no word for the emotion Jack feels. It shocks through them, setting their nerves twitching to run away as much as leap forward. Their heart thumps. Their palms sweat. They gape into Flat’s big blue eyes, looking just as shocked as they feel.

“Jack! You’re really okay! I mean, Mr. Velvet said you were, but you’re here! Are they feeding you? The food here’s really boring! Oh no- were you eating?”

A million questions come to mind, but there is not time for any of them. They squeeze their fork hard enough to hurt and look to the camera in the corner. “What did you do?”

Flat pauses halfway through an attempted hug and tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“What did you do?” they repeat, hoarser this time.

“Well, I was just thinking about how I really _really_ wanted to see you and then poof! You were there!” He’s using the same tone he always did when he ate Jack’s share of dessert. Like he knows he’s done something wrong but doesn’t understand the full implications.

“Put me back.”

“What?”

“Put me _back!_ ” Of course. For Flat, this is a happy reunion. Jack knows that he is smart, but it only shows in certain ways. Considering consequences has never been his strong suit. They keep their eyes fixed on the mechanical eye in the corner as they hold him at arm’s length- too nervous for a reunion, but too relieved to push him away completely. “They’re going to think I’ve escaped. They’re going to shoot first and ask questions later.”

That seems to get through. Jack can almost see their own frightened expression painted across Flat’s pupils. It spreads out from there. Flat drops his arms and looks to the door. He seems anxious. Good. He needs to be. “I, uh, I…”

“Hurry!”

And then he hangs his head, and Jack knows they’re in trouble before he says “I don’t know how.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I don’t know how!” Flat’s voice jumps a pitch. “Jack, what do we do?”

“Why are you asking _me?_ ” they cry, half-hysterical. “I was eating _breakfast!_ ”

“What do we _do?_ ” Flat repeats to the room at large. The walls have no answers. His eyes dart to the camera and back.

“Can you at least _try_?”

Flat takes a step back and sets his feet shoulder length apart. The corners of his mouth tick down in concentration. “Abra...” His hand snaps out. “Cadabra!”

Dust drifts down from the ceiling at its usual pace. Jack looks from the center of Flat’s palm to his eyes. He holds the pose for nearly fifteen seconds before dropping his shoulders in defeat. “It didn’t work.”

“Can you try again?” Their voice cracks.

Flat flails, waving his arm in every which direction. He starts saying words that might be Latin but are more likely bastardized nonsense from some movie he’d never watched. He’s miming wands, acting buttons, mimicking anything and everything he can think of. In between acts, he squeaks out an “Is it working?” to which Jack inevitably replies “No,” voice climbing higher.

The outer door clicks. The sound of combat boots and weapons being armed breaks in. Flat and Jack both freeze. Their eyes meet.

The second latch clicks

And

Jack’s breakfast falls heavy on their lap.

The bowl of oatmeal rattles from the impact. They nearly knock it over in their hurry to stand. They don’t remember sitting down. “Flat?”

Flat is not there. _No one_ is there. Just four white walls, one white bed, and sundry matching fixtures. They are back in their room. They press their fingertips to their neck, counting their pulse as it drums through their veins. They keep still, listening. All they can hear is their heartbeat and the soft whirr of the camera as its lens adjusts.

They look up.

It stares back down.

With delicate shaking hands, they put their tray aside, and pick up their pillow. It feels soft. They squeeze it once, twice, and then press their face as deep as it can go.

It muffles their scream, but only just. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack is feeling far too many emotions at once and would like this ride to stop please they just need to gather themself


	12. a pawn promotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your actions have consequences, whether or not you are aware of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALLY HOPE MOBILE DOESNT MESS THIS UP.

**Location: 9664’s containment cell**

The second latch opens. The door follows suit.

Trained soldiers storm into the room that was supposed to hold SCP-9664 and SCP-9047--the latter who had somehow breached containment. Shoot first, ask questions later; that was how they operated. It was how they survived. And they had no doubt that the two anomalies in that room could pose a danger to the very world when put together. 

What they find, though, is 9664 with hands raised high, its back pressed against a wall. 

“They’re back in their room, I promise!” The anomaly shouts, blue eyes wide with fear.

But unlike the fear that gripped them since he first opened his eyes in the Foundation, tight and heavy like a death sentence, this was more like a child who had been caught stealing a cookie from the jar before dinner.

The grin on his face was more genuine, more human than any of the agents and researchers had seen on his face before.

“Search the room.” One of them, Flat reads the name on their uniform as ‘Sigma’, speaks up. Unfeeling eyes stare into his own as they speak up again. “SCP-9664, any sudden movements will result in your termination.” 

A gulp. It’s a harsh punishment, and one that he doesn’t want to go through again. And yet, the fact that they know that they’d be able to pull through it gives him a small bit of respite. As long as they wish to live, then they would not die--that’s as far as he knew.

And as long as Jack was around, Flat knew that he would not give up on that small, instinctual wish. “Yessir!” They called out, watching with a bright smile as they inspected whatever nook and cranny they could find that was hidden by the cameras. Under the bedsheets. Under the bed. Hell, someone even shone a flashlight in the _toilet_ \--that’s when Flat couldn’t help but crack up in laughter.

After half an hour of searching where there was nowhere to search and asking questions with no real answers (“How did you bring them?” “I just thought really hard!”) the team finally gave up and walked out of the room. 

Flat’s heart is still thumping violently against his chest. 

He hasn’t felt this sort of excitement in _months._

Jack is alive and the hope he feels is like having the warm rays of the sun shine on him.

———

**Location: Site XX Cafeteria**

“To be frank, I’m not sure why I didn’t fight the Site reassignment.” Dr. Weaver’s dull voice speaks up among the crowd of noises in the cafeteria. He orders two coffees-- one for himself, and one for Waver. It’s no different from the countless amounts of coffee that he has gotten in his year length in the Foundation, the formula watered down to the point that it’s simply dirty water…

But it tastes worse. Like it was bitter, poisoned by the mere presence of the researcher.

Waver dreads this conversation as much as he had dreaded every meeting with his long-dead supervisor. But he steels himself for it anyways, green eyes narrowed in order to not give away the anxiety that is quickly building up in his chest. “It must be the dream of any researcher to work with such an unusual subject.” Waver states half-heartedly, glancing at the multitude of people in the cafeteria. 

“If by dream you mean a _nightmare_ , then sure.” The researcher bites back, a sarcastic grin on his lips as he takes a sip of his own coffee, making a disgusted face as he does so. “Shit’s terrible, isn’t it?” Waver doesn’t answer, drinking out of his own coffee without any change in his expression. He continues. “Anyways, there’s no doubt that the skip is interesting--it’s been forever since we’ve had a reality bender that works the way it does. Even 239’s case, though similar at first glance, has ended up being drastically different than 9664’s-- they managed to terminate that one, at least.” 

Waver has little idea about who Dr. Weaver is talking about. Regardless, the idea of “terminating” Flat is something that sits uneasily in his stomach, and the coffee only makes it worse. He thinks about the poison in the food. About the bullet hole in the wall. About the acid pit. 

About the thing that came out of there, with eyes as dark and unforgiving as the vastness of space.

The watered down coffee serves little comfort, especially when his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an alarm that both of them could recognize at the drop of a hat.

A containment breach.

And if Waver’s premonition wasn’t enough, the look on Dr. Weaver’s face as he looks at his pager is proof enough that this was related to Flat Escardos.

“I apologize, Waver.” Dr. Weaver says, downing his coffee in one shot as he stands up in a hurry—Waver realizes that this is the first time he’s been called by name by a higher up. “But I have made my decision. Hopefully you will hear about it soon.”

_Hopefully I don’t,_ Waver wishes to retort, but instead holds his tongue, watching the figure of the researcher disappear in a rush. He can already feel the beginnings of a headache… and he has little doubt about who the source of it will end up being.

———

**Location: undisclosed**

In an undisclosed room in an equally undisclosed location, there is a group of thirteen figures sitting in a round table. It is a rare occurance to see one, let alone all thirteen in the same location—though none of the Foundation staff would have the clearance to know that this is happening in the first place.

Well, most of them wouldn’t.

“It’s growing into its powers.” One of the figures say. His face aged with wrinkles and a beard as gray as a rainy day, but the sharp look in his eyes is proof enough of the power that he still holds. “Our attempts to eliminate this threat have proven to be insufficient. And now _look_ —“ He motions to the video feed on display, in 9664’s room as someone suddenly appears in front of them—9047—with a biodegradable spork still in their hand. “This video was recorded yesterday in 9664’s containment cell. When we brought it in five months ago, it was unaware of his own capabilities. Now, not only is it aware of its powers, but its seal is beginning to chip at the edges, as the slaughter of those six D-class agents proves.”

As the O5 pauses to let those words sink in, the others in that same category begin to murmur in low voices amongst themselves. Thirteen figures of all sizes and appearances, each one having seen the destruction and rebirth of the world enough times to not have them bat an eyelash. They have experienced—and some _are—_ creatures as terrifying as those that are imprisoned in the various sites, their loyalty and lifespans being the only reasons that they sit in their seats instead of a cell in an undisclosed site. 

And yet the voices that muttered in a low drone were laced with _worry._

“That person’s made a bold move—“ “Do they really plan to—?” “What benefit is there—?” “To think we’d have _that_ within our Foundation—!!”

Amongst those mutters, only one of them remained silent. A young woman in an aviator uniform leaning her back against the seat, her cheek resting on her hand in a bored expression. To her side, an equally young agent stood so still that someone might confuse him with a statue.

“These meetings are always so boring.” She—Watcher—mumbles to the agent with a deep, perhaps overly dramatic sigh. “I’d apologize for bringing you here, Sigma, but you don’t know the strings I had to pull in order to show you this.” 

Sigma nods, silent as ever. However, he could not help but knit his brows together in confusion. While he understood that the meeting wasn’t interesting (he’d much rather be watching a movie right now, for example), he did not understand the why he had to be here or why Watcher had gone through the effort of getting all the permissions necessary to have him stand like a light post while people whisper about things that he could barely understand.

And it seemed that Watcher was able to understand his unvoiced question, because she smiled knowingly towards him. “You’re my ace in the hole, Sigma,” she said, before standing up to speak.

“Now, Zelretch, thank you _so_ much for your warning. Though I can’t help but wonder, don’t you have their number on speed dial? Why not just call them and ask them to put a stop to this?” 

The room was silent—however, Watcher could tell that a couple had to stifle a snicker. Others rolled their eyes. 

Zelretch did neither. He merely turned his gaze onto Watcher, shaking his head. “If this is a game to you, Watcher, then that is not my problem.”

“No, that’s not it at all!” The pilot said, before disappearing into thin air, leaving a young man wrapped in wings that were not made of feathers, but of molten wax. “What I’m asking is, what other option did we have but to take it in? Better a prisoner than a researcher—or worse, one of our own O5?”

“If you could even call _that_ a prisoner.” Another voice speaks up. A long, thick braid of white hair swayed from his shoulder to his back, the ornate clothes and jewelry on him giving him the aura of one of the kings of old. He spoke in a steady tone, neither bored nor excited by these news. “I can _see_ what it will cause, and that will be the end of this Universe as we know it. If we cannot stop it before it destroys the Foundation itself, then this may be final.”

“And we thank you for your infinite wisdom, King Solomon, but perhaps seeing the past and future has made your present view a bit… weak?” Watcher smirks, arms crossed against his chest as the O5 turn towards him. “The future you see is not set in stone, correct?”

A pause. Solomon nods. “Correct.”

“Then we must simply change our course of action.” Watcher shrugs, as if that were the easiest solution to come up with—so easy, that the rest of them had simply ignored it. “Perhaps we should take that D-class’ words as a good example—what was it that he said? _‘Isn’t it possible that he reacts like that when he’s trying to protect himself and his friend?’”_ The grin on his face grows, and Sigma, who stands by his side, can’t help but feel a sense of growing danger. 

However, he stays.

It’s possible that the others in the table pick up on this same sensation, because the air is now far more tense, all mouths silent and all eyes on him.

“What do you mean, Watcher?”

Hook. Line. And sinker. Watcher grins. “That man, Van-Fem, Waver Velvet is his name. And he has not only experienced both sides of this particular anomaly but come out of it _alive._ Beyond our clairvoyance, he is someone that has first hand experience with it. Most importantly, the reason he was not killed was not because of some sudden mercy from our little terror—that thing was _definitely trying to kill him._ ”

Zelretch’s voice cuts through the room like a hot knife. “Get to the point, Watcher.”

Watcher rolls his eyes. “You just never have fun, do you? I’ll spell it out for you, and everyone else. Two days ago, Waver Velvet encountered “it” once more, and made it out alive again. Isn’t that something we should take advantage of? Our dear Dr. Weaver is far too out of his depth, and even he was aware of that—that is what the two of them tried to discuss before our little containment breach. And how lucky a promotion it would be, to go from a D-class to a full-fledged researcher, hm?”

There is a heavy silence that hangs in the air afterwards, as the O5 discuss among themselves the suggestion that came from one of their own. Even Sigma, who had been present for that encounter, was somewhat surprised by the idea. Was that truly a good idea?

But he didn’t have to be the one to mention it. The one as King Solomon took the words out of his—and everyone else’s—mouths. “He has shown little love for the Foundation and our methods; is this truly what you would call ‘lucky’?”

Without missing a beat, Watcher responds. “Who said _he_ was the lucky one?”

———

**Location: Site XX, Floor 5**

In Watcher’s office, there are three people. Watcher, now in the form of an old man with a wooden peg for a leg, now sitting in their office chair. Sigma, who stands diligently next to his superior. And the one that stands on the other side of the elegant, oak desk is none other than—

“Waver Velvet.” Watcher speaks, voice gruff with age and experience that the other two in the room would never be able to comprehend. “Do you know why you are here?”

The D-class manages to keep their expression trained, but Watcher didn’t need to read minds (which, despite the rumors, was something they could not do) to know how they felt. 

The anger in being little more than a pawn in a chess game far bigger than he could imagine. 

The disgust for the methods employed by the Foundation in order to keep the world turning yet another day.

The concern he felt towards the ticking time bomb named Flat Escardos.

“I do not, sir.” Waver says, voice strained like a taut string, his posture tense. In a way, his attempts at hiding his fear were adorable—as if Watcher hadn’t felt all of these emotions before. 

Or, well, the lives that made up who Watcher was. Idly, they wonder if this one would be suitable—but they have already made their choice. “I am here to make you… what was the line, Sigma? The one from the Godfather?”

Sigma glances to the side, “I haven’t watched that one, sir.”

Watcher turns, eyes widened in shock. “We’ll fix that on your next day off. Anyways,” turning back to Waver, he leans back in his armchair. “I am about to make you an offer you cannot refuse.” There’s a pause to let the words sink in—from the way that Waver shifts, it’s obvious that this is more than just a chance to drop a silly movie reference. “Dr. Weaver came to me earlier for two reasons. Do you know what they are?”

Another pause. Waver doesn’t know what it is...but he has an idea. He balls his hands up into fists, nails digging painfully into his palms. “No, sir.” He answers, throat suddenly dry.

Watcher smiles. “First reason was to request a new placement. It seems that the stress of the last few weeks was simply...too much for him.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Second… was to recommend _you_ as his successor.”

And it’s that which metaphorically knocks the wind out of Waver. He takes a step back, green eyes wide in what could be either shock...or horror. “M-me?! Sir, I am… I am only a D-class. I can’t—!”

“Oh, but you _can_ . And you _will._ I did say this was an offer you couldn’t refuse, no?” He gives a small signal, pointing to the desk, and Sigma opens it, pulling out a pen. Watcher turns towards it, and then shakes his head. “No, no, to the left. The stack of papers and the thing on top of it.” It takes a few more seconds of shuffling before the soldier places on the desk two things: a nameplate and a stack of files. “Starting tomorrow you’ll be trading in the D-class uniform for a lab coat and some normal clothes—and I believe you know very well who you’ll be assigned to, right, Dr. Velvet?”

Waver takes a step back. 

And another.

And by the third, his knees give way as his tall body falls to the side, unresponsive.

Instinctively, Sigma draws his gun out in case anything else happened, but after a few seconds without any movement, he placed it back in its holster. “Sir, he fainted.”

“That seems to be the case, boy.” Watcher says, stroking his beard in thought. “Perhaps we should be careful with him—it’ll be bad if he dies of overwork and stress before we are ready.”

  
  



	13. Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waver's first week in his new job goes... relatively smoothly.

Waver’s head is pounding. This is not anything new. There’s hardly been a moment since he enrolled in his PhD program that he woke with a clear head. But this aches on the outside, just under his hair. He must have hit his head. His hip aches as well, from where a bony shoulder is digging into it.

For a boy so slight, he would not have thought that Watcher’s assistant had the strength to carry him. Still, he supposes that a Fireman’s carry was invented for just that reason. Still, he cannot let this continue. He raises his arm and lets it drop back down on Sigma’s. It draws his attention just enough. Without warning or ceremony, Sigma lowers Waver’s feet back to the floor. His arm remains to steady him. “Can you stand?”

“Yes,” Waver replies, though he is not sure that he can. The shock of his promotion buzzes through his skull in rapid circles, pulsing along to the beat of his migraine.

“I am taking you to your room,” Sigma says.

“My bunk?” he groans with some distain.

Sigma does not reply.

\--

The next morning, Waver wakes in the same bed he always has. It would be easy to pretend that nothing has changed if not for the clothing hanging from the door. As a professor, Waver had not once worn a lab coat. Now, he drags one on over the button-down they’d provided him. He doubts he will need it and resolves to ditch it at the first available opportunity.

There is a weight in the pocket, dragging it down on the right. He reaches in. There is a single, analogue key with a number taped across the front. Its digits suggest that it belongs to the researchers’ dorms. He tucks it away for the time being.

Sigma is waiting by the D-Class cafeteria. While his face betrays nothing, the teacher in Waver recognizes the face of someone who is just as ignorant as he is. He is holding a file with a set of familiar numbers paperclipped to the front. The moment they make eye contact he turns his back and marches down the hallway.

Waver follows.

The staff cafeteria is more like the D-Class cafeteria than he had hoped. Small groups sit together, and arguments spit like venom even at this early hour. The moment they cross the threshold, Sigma veers towards the lunch line, leaving Waver to his own devices. He follows while keeping his eyes on the social order. The tables immediately adjacent to the lunch line are mostly empty this early. Waver suspects that they do not stay that way later in the day, when noise is less of an immediate concern.

Then there is a ring of soldiers. Most of the ones up this early look like they have not slept. They hunch over their meals and chew so slow that Waver wonders if they are eating at all. They do not speak to one-another, but they exchange exhausted looks from time to time.

The men and women in lab coats (“my colleagues,” Waver thinks with no small sense of irony) crowd the furthest from the door. Several are holding files in one hand while they eat with their other. All are consuming immense amounts of coffee. The final group, half-faded into the lab coats, has no cohesive dress code that he can identify. He suspects administration.

When he has his lunch, he heads for the soldiers first. Both D-Class personnel and soldiers were meat shields for the Foundation. He suspects that they’ll be sympathetic. But the collective group takes one look at his clothing and grimaces. He moves on.

Several of the researchers glance up with interest when he approaches, and one even shifts their tray to make a little room. Then an administrator leans over and hisses in their ear. The tray shifts back. The pair glare at him. They know what he had been. He heaves a sigh. Funny to think they bother being suspicious of a human when they deal with monsters all day.

There are several tables to spare in the corner closest to the entrance. A familiar figure with a mop of black hair is the sole occupant of one.

Sigma, then. He is not the only one relegated to the fringes. He slides his tray across the table. Sigma hardly looks up when he does. Waver is not sure whether to be offended, but decides it is not worth the effort. He’s hardly scooped up his first forkful of scrambled eggs when Sigma lifts his empty plate and carries it back to the kitchens.

Waver is, once again, alone with his files. He flicks them open and starts to read.

\--

Breakfast slides in through the usual slot. It is not accompanied by any guests, Waver or otherwise. Flat knows that he should not expect it, but he can’t help but be a bit disappointed. He demonstrates this disappointment by lying in bed and sighing loud and often. When that receives no reaction, he rolls back and forth for another ten minutes, before concluding that he is not going to accomplish anything like this.

The speakers crackle. Flat rockets upright.

“Good morning, Flat.”

“Mr. Velvet?” Flat tilts his face to the camera. His grin could blind a man. “That’s you, right? What’re you doing up there? Oh! Don’t tell me. Um…” He rests his chin in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, mimicking the image of thought. “You… Took over and you’re breaking us out!”

“No, you idiot!” There is a thump and a crackle as if someone’d just slammed their hand over the microphone. Muffled talking. Flat thinks he recognizes the sharp voice of the man who’d ordered his death on more than one occasion. He goes still, smile fixed, until Mr. Velvet’s voice returns. “I am taking over your case. That means I’m responsible for you from now on, so I would appreciate it if you would  _ behave _ .” The last part is hissed in a way that muffles the microphone in bursts of breath. He clears his throat and continues. “It also means that I am a researcher now. You should call me Dr. Velvet.”

It is a lot to take in, and it all seems so improbable that even Flat knows he should question it.

He does not.

The past few months have been hard, he reasons. He is in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth. He snaps his hand to his forehead in a mockery of salute without the slightest hesitation. “Professor Velvet!”

“’Professor?’ This isn’t,” The microphone squeals at Dr. Velvet’s volume. “… Just call me Dr. Velvet. I will be talking to you much more in the future, so I’d like to get that established as early as possible.”

“Yessir, Dr. Professor Velvet, Sir!”

The sigh he receives in response carries the weight of the world. Even that cannot drag Flat’s smile down.

\--

Orientation takes nearly a week. Dr. Weaver is in and out, attending to the paperwork and packing associated with his move. He helps, but only barely. He does not want to spend any more time around Flat’s containment cell than he must. Waver cannot blame him. Reality always seems thinner there. Waver is only just becoming accustomed to the sensation.

When the week is up, Dr. Weaver hands him the last of the unredacted files, and Flat Escardos is officially under his care. He spends a late night memorizing the materials. There is one block of black untouched by his authorizations near the bottom of the file- a note left by an O5. He’d asked Dr. Weaver about it and was met with a shrug. Even if he can identify, much less contact, the person who wrote the note, it is probably a lost cause.

Waver takes tentative comfort in the knowledge that they cannot expect him to do anything about the things they won’t tell him. He moves on to his first plan. 

Step 1 of containing Flat is exceedingly simple.

He finds Jack’s researcher in the cafeteria some eight days into his promotion. She has a copy of the local paper tucked under her tray while she shovels oatmeal into her mouth. He introduces himself and explains the situation. It does not take much to convince her.

With her signature, things are easier. He submits the paperwork and receives a response within three hours. The email with the approval attached is incredulous enough that Waver can’t help but suspect Watcher’s intervention. He cannot decide if their meddling is a benefit or a warning sign. He accepts it anyway.

When he opens Flat’s doors that evening, the look on his face is all the thanks Waver needs.

\--

Jack hovers in the doorway of the familiar-yet-unfamiliar cell. Flat’s eyes are sapphires, sparkling out joy he cannot voice. “Jack?”

They shift, looking over their shoulder and then back. There are so many things they’ve thought to say over the past four months, but none of them land right on their tongue. “Hi Flat,” they mumble.

He  _ beams _ .

“You have one hour,” Waver- Dr. Velvet- says from behind them. “Do me a favor and don’t blow the place up.”

The door closes and latches behind Jack. They try not to think about disappearing bodies. It is easier, somehow, like this. Flat’s eyes are a little darker, and he is not immediately rushing to their side, but he’s smiling the same way he always has. They brush back their hair and step forward to greet him. “Are you okay? Did they do anything to you after you sent me back?”

“They were mad,” Flat says without concern, “But since we didn’t do anything it was okay! They just said I shouldn’t do that again or anything. Hey- Guess what! Dr. Velvet’s in charge of me now.”

“I know. He told me.” The wry smile on Jack’s face feels a little like coming home, even though they’d never had one. They sit on the floor, legs crossed one over the other. Flat flops down next to them. “He must’ve pulled in a lot of favors to get this to happen. Not that I know why he’d waste them on us.”

“Because he’s a good guy,” Flat reasons. “He’s a lot better than those guys in black.”

A simplification, yes, but Jack sees a little truth in it. Waver is not like the others. They still are not sure if that is a good thing. Still, they are not going to complain. They can see stockpiled stress dripping off Flat’s posture, and it relieves both the friend and the fear in them. They cuff Flat light on the shoulder because they can. “You’re right. So you can’t cause him trouble like you do with me, okay?”

“But it’s  _ fun _ trouble,” Flat protests.

“Like the time you tried to start a food fight in the mall and got us chased by security?”

“Exactly!”

“We had to leave town immediately. You forgot your backpack when we were running.”

“But we got it back!”

Jack rolls their eyes with the exasperation only time could bring. “Because you used your superpowers to find it again.”

Flat is quiet for a moment. From the purse of his lips, Jack can tell that he is thinking through the same revelation they’d had months ago. His face turns serious, and for a moment Jack thinks that he will finally,  _ finally _ address the elephant in the room.

But Flat is nothing if not surprises. “Yeah,” he looks up at the ceiling like it’s the stars. Despite the white walls, the shitty uniforms, and the disappointing breakfast settling in their stomach, it feels right. “But you were smiling.”

Jack can’t deny it. Not with another spinning across their face.

\--

At the end of the hour, Waver stands in the doorway.

Flat and Jack look out at him like children at the end of recess. He shakes his head. “Seems like the fabric of reality is still intact.” He doesn’t miss the way Jack’s eyes dart to Flat and back.

Flat is too busy scrambling to his feet to notice. “So you’re gonna take Jack away again?”

“It was only for an hour,” Jack reminds him.

“And there’ll be a lot more hours if I get my way,” Waver says. He gestures for the door. “This was just a test. Congratulations. You passed. It should be a hell of a lot easier getting them to greenlight these meetings from now on as long as  _ you _ ,” he points at Flat, “Behave.”

“Hey! Why not Jack too?”

Jack rolls their shoulder as they stand. “Because I’m more responsible. He can trust me not to do anything rash.”

“Don’t get too smug,” Waver grumbles. “You’re still a serial killer. Now out. You can argue about this the next time you get together.”

Jack files past him while Flat experiments with protests.

When Waver checks in with Dr. Willis later that evening, Jack is still smiling.

\--

“Congratulations on your successful experiment.” Watcher claps while he speaks, but it is not enough to mask his tone.

“You already knew how it was going to turn out,” Waver observes. “I know that you’re the one that pushed things through, so you can skip the false praise. What do you want from me?”

Watcher does not seem anything less than pleased with Waver’s attitude. He traces the rough carving of his cane like a villain pets a cat. “I’m sending Sigma to fetch him tomorrow evening after dinner. I thought I’d warn you so we could avoid another one of your fainting spells.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have to sound so suspicious! I just want to talk to him.”

“About what?”

Watcher’s graveyard smile says nothing.

\--

Flat tries to engage Sigma in conversation for the duration of the walk. And it  _ is _ a long walk. He has long lost track of the twists and turns in the facility, and his legs are sore after so many months of sedation.

Sigma shows no sign of fatigue or hesitation. He advances with unerring precision. Like a key drawn to a lock. In time, Flat feels almost hypnotized by the rhythmic beat of his footsteps.

“Hey, how much further?” Flat thinks that he has asked the same question a thousand times, but he cannot stop himself from asking one more. Sigma does not seem annoyed. He does not seem anything.

They draw to a stop some five minutes later in front of a steel door with a single lock.

Something pricks at the back of Flat’s spine. He scratches at his neck, though he knows that this feeling is not something he can scrape away.

_ There is a name for this, _ say the thoughts he pretends he cannot hear. They do not elaborate. He does not dig deeper. “Is this Dr. Velvet’s office?” he asks, craning around to see what he knows is not true.

Sigma raises his right knuckles and drums two beats.

“Come in!”

It is not Dr. Velvet’s voice, nor is it Dr. Weaver, or any researcher that Flat has met in his imprisonment. The voice has the pitch of a boy, with the care of a parent. Maybe it is the contrast or his breakfast, but Flat’s thoughts feel like he’s floating.

_ Go back. _

Everything seems faint around the edges. He presses his hand against the wall to steady himself. “Hey, can we go back? I’m not feeling so well.” 

Sigma’s wrist twists around the door handle and it swings inward.

Flat tries to focus on the widening slice of fire-soft light. There is something building up in the back of his throat. It could be bile. He feels sick enough. But he knows that it is not.

There is a boy waiting for them on the other side. His platinum hair floats like clouds down to his feet, and his clothes call back to a different time.

Half his face is frozen stone.

His skin is smiling. “It is nice to finally meet you, Flat.”

A growl rips free from between Flat’s teeth, and so does something else.

Somewhere, in a room full of screens, the cameras flicker. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Siri here for some reason I have three different updating fics simultaneously and honestly I blame Vitriol for all of this


	14. A civil conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watcher tries to have a conversation with someone that is willing to listen.
> 
> Well, maybe not that willing.

_ They do not remember when they first opened their eyes.  _

_ It could have been a century.  _

_ A decade.  _

_ A year.  _

_ Yesterday, even.  _

_ What they do remember is the calming, smooth voice that spoke to them as they woke up from the slumber that they should have never awoken from. It was the voice of a stranger—though all humans were a stranger to them at the time. They remember the way they smiled down at them, gently, the same way a god may look down at its people. _

_ “It’s complete.” The stranger said, blue eyes fixed on their own. It was a stare that seemed to transcend it all, space, time, and even humanity itself. And yet, as far as they could see, the person in question was very much… a human being. So for someone like them, who was supposed to be something that humans could barely comprehend, much less control, it was… _

_ It was… _

_ Terrifying.  _

_ And it was that fear which became the first emotion that the being that would be known as “Flat Escardos” felt. _

“What are  _ you _ doing here?” are the words that came out of their mouth, as low and as dangerous as the rumble of a storm that is soon to arrive. 

Reality shivers.

Watcher continues to smile, almost fatherly. Almost snake-like. “I  _ work _ here, my child. The same way that you are a willing prisoner, I also have my own duty to fulfill.”

Sigma swears that he hears something crack in the room, like glass that is reaching its limit. His expression does not seem to shift, but his hand immediately goes to his gun—

—but where his weapon should be, all it grasps is empty air.

“I’ll take your gun for now.” Sigma hears the anomaly say, cold and unfeeling, its back turned towards him. “I’m not in the mood for your trigger-happy tendencies.”

_ Fair enough, _ Sigma finds himself thinking, despite the danger of the situation. He  _ did _ blow its head off the last time he encountered it. And he would not hesitate to do it again if he had the chance to do so.

Watcher’s good eye shifts between 9664 and Sigma, and nothing about him betrays the idea that he is cool and composed about everything. He looks and acts like he’s in control, like nothing could go wrong under his ever watchful gaze. 

But the thing facing him smiles, eyebrows raised. What it says nearly makes Sigma’s stomach drop in disbelief.

“Nervous?”

Watcher laughs. It is no different from any of his other laughs. The way half of his face turns upwards in a smile is the same as always and so is the way that his shoulders drop casually, like he was talking to someone that he had known for decades. It’s the same as always, and there is no hint of the anomaly having made a correct assessment of Sigma’s superior. In fact, Sigma felt as if the thought of Watcher being  _ nervous _ was something impossible—like rain falling into the sky. 

And yet—

“Oh, don’t feel insulted. I simply don’t trust your impulse control. And I’d rather keep my dear Sigma alive for at least a few more decades.” There’s a quick glance towards Sigma, one that he doesn’t miss. In that moment, the smile fades, before coming back with an ease that is almost frightening. “He deserves that much doesn’t he?”

9664 glances towards Sigma again, and shrugs. “I have no grudge against someone like him. Although maybe releasing him from your grasp would be more of a mercy than a curse. What would those people say if they knew what you’ve done with them?”

Another cheshire smile. Sigma is immediately realizing that maybe it would be better if he weren’t around. “What would  _ yours _ say if he knew?”

“Flat does not need to find out.”  _ How stupid _ , Sigma almost says. 

And it seems that, from the expression that Watcher makes in response, they seem to be thinking the same thing--like a father that tries to reason with a child that’s throwing a tantrum. Except this tantrum could break reality in half and unleash hell at the snap of a finger. 

“But he will, you know.” Watcher observes. “He already knows what he is and what you’ve done. He has access to Dr. Velvet as well. You’ve spoken to Dr. Velvet, haven’t you? He is a fine man, though he has a bad habit of saying things that he shouldn’t.” 

Sigma hears the low shriek of metal on concrete before he feels the room shake. 

9664’s teeth are bared, and Sigma cannot shake the impression of fangs, though they are dull as ever. They take several steps to the desk and stop, glaring feet above Watcher’s head. “Is that a threat?” 

“Of course not!” Watcher gasps, their fingertips grazing their chest in mock affront. “Just an observation. Or I suppose you could call it a ‘reminder.’” 

“Ah,” 9664’s midnight eyes slip back down to Sigma. He feels his muscles lock, turned to stone. He tries to wrench his arm, or even a finger, free of the paralysis, but he cannot move a shred. “Then I can remind you that I can remove this worker bee from existence.” 

“True,” Watcher concedes. Sweat pricks at Sigma’s palms. He wonders if this roiling sensation in the pit of his stomach is something like ‘fear.’ Watcher’s stone-crushed hand raises and flicks towards the door in two short snaps. “But I think we will have to pass for today. Sigma, would you mind fetching some coffee for Dr. Velvet? I am sure that he could use some.” 

The restraints around him wring tighter for a moment, before dropping away. Sigma does not bother to gather himself before walking out the door. 

Watcher folds his hands under his chin and smiles again, a little looser this time. “Now, while I have you, I wanted to return to our earlier discussion. You asked why I am here, and I answered. Now, I’d like to ask you the same thing. Why are  _ you _ here?” 

“Your people didn’t give me much choice in the matter,” 9664 spits. “Or didn’t your toy tell you how he shot off my head?” 

Watcher sighs and looks to the little statues and pictures they keep on their shelves. “I am not asking how they caught you. You’d only just woken up. It was hardly a fair fight. I am asking why you are still here. I know your capabilities as well as anyone. You could leave any time you wanted. You could even take your friend with you if you wished. So why don’t you?” 

9664’s jaw sets like steel. Their eyes burn through the space several feet above Watcher’s, but his smile does not waver. 

“I can’t imagine that it’s your bond with Dr. Velvet: That seems more ‘Flat’ than you. We really should not be making those sorts of connections, though that has hardly stopped either of us.” 

“Is that another threat?” 

“I have not threatened you once. I’ve only made an observation. That is really all that I  _ can _ do.” Watcher drops their hands to their desk, and the smile falls from their lips. “I understand that you are not fond of the Foundation and its methods, and that is your right. They have done horrific things in the name of the world. I would be concerned if you did not hold any negative feelings towards them- or rather, us. But regardless of your personal feelings, I cannot have you interfering with the Foundation’s operations.” 

There is no reason for 9664 to entertain the request, and they know that Watcher acknowledges that. They have seen nothing so far that endears them to the place. All it has done is lock them up and torture them, their friend, and the only researcher in the whole organization they think is worth a damn. Now is no different. 

They do not know what the thing in front of them is, but they do know the nostalgic feeling of fear that writhes in their chest. They can kill his tool, raze this place to the ground, and eliminate the Foundation from every record, but they do not know if they can do the same to him. It is the first time they’ve felt such uncertainty and they hate it. But they saw the pinch around his smile that Sigma could not, and it brought them comfort. If they cannot hurt Watcher, he does not know that. They can use that to their advantage. 

“Give me one good reason I should listen,” they say with hate on their lips. 

“Just one?” Watcher smiles wide enough to swallow the sun. “I think that I can do better than that.” 

“What are you,” 9664’s composure snaps. They recoil, holding their arms up like a barrier. “Don’t  _ touch  _ me!” 

_ The world is screaming color.  _

_ They want to scream too, but it is not for fear. It is a harmony that is as familiar as it is frightening. Though they’ve never heard it, they follow the notes along the flashing images that press in from every side until they arrive at a collection framed by familiar white rooms.  _

_ There is a large skeleton draped in flesh that twitches in a pool of acid. Its incisors cut through the pain, bellowing curses to the world and every human on it.  _

_ There is an old man encased in layers of lead, with skin black from decay.  _

_ There is an ancient computer connected to a leaden cylinder and a globe that glows with a light that makes their stomach churn.  _

_ There is a pool as red as a wildfire sunset in a field of snow.  _

_ A statue in a room stained rust.  _

_ A starlight spiral tower, shrieking to the heavens.  _

All at once it is over. It feels like coming up for air after a deep dive in the ocean, and 9664 all but chokes on their breath as they regain their footing. “That spear,” they rasp, “Is it yours?” 

Watcher’s eyes crinkle. “Oh, no. Mine is nothing so special. Really, I’m quite harmless compared to most of the things in this place.” 

9664 does not believe that for a second. 

Watcher stands, stretching to his full height, and they have to crane to meet his gaze. “So? Do you need any more reasons to listen? I have several thousand more, if you’d like.” 

“No. That was enough.” There is a chair near the door. It is as far from Watcher as they can get in a room this small, so they settle there. It is not comfortable, but the after-images of infinite flashing lights still haunt their head, and they need a seat. “Go ahead.” 

“Thank you. Now for why I called you here.” His voice drops, all semblance of levity drained away in a word. “I wanted to talk about Mesala.” 

\--

The Foundation has three types of surveillance rooms. The first is intended for surveilling anomalies. They contain clusters of cameras stationed around various cells, and are strategically arranged to ensure that clearance and containment procedures are not violated. The second watches the entrance for people coming or going without proper authorization. The third and final type monitors the hallways and offices. 

These rooms are restricted to guards that have been meticulously screened, and can be trusted with top-secret conversations. Under normal circumstances, Waver would never be allowed to set foot inside. 

Watcher has ways of getting around such restrictions. On a regular occasion, it would make Waver curious, wishing to know a bit more about this black box of a person that was only known by their title. 

Now, however, he can only  _ seethe _ at the screen in front of him. 

The video feed is distorted to the point of it being impossible to see a single thing, but that is  _ all _ that he needs to see in order to have a good idea about what is going on inside that room. 

“Damn it, damn it, damn it! What does that idiot think he’s  _ doing!? _ ” As if it were able to do anything, Waver throws his pen at the monitor with as much force as he can muster. 

Sigma, at the other end of the room, watches listlessly as the video feed continues to crackle and hiss angrily at the room. He had already long delivered the coffee (which Dr. Velvet had drank with trembling hands), but he had understood Watcher’s implicit request to  _ leave _ before the thing classified as 9664 had the opportunity to fulfill their threat. 

Absent anything else to do, he picks up Waver’s errant pen and places it back on the table. Waver rounds on him, fire in his eyes, and nails cut deep through his palms. “What the hell is he planning? Is he an idiot? Is he suicidal? No. In this case it must be homicidal. He’s going to kill us all at this rate!” 

Sigma’s eyes are impenetrable, dull and fearless. He rolls his jaw as if he’s tasting his answer before slowly, carefully, mumbling it out. “It will be fine.” 

“How can you possibly know?” Waver’s voice cracks the way it hasn’t since he was a teen. “He can’t even pick up a piece of paper on his own! He can’t do anything but talk! What could he possibly do if something goes wrong?” 

Sigma shrugs, but his conviction does not waver. “He’s never,” he takes in a breath, like someone who is not accustomed to confidence, “He’s never made that kind of mistake. I trust him.” 

There’s gravel in the way he says it, like he is forming the words for the first time. Waver’s heartbeat crawls back into a steady rhythm. 

“You trust him?” 

“Yes.” 

“ _ Him? _ ” 

Sigma seems uncomfortable. He looks back to the static and Waver follows his gaze. 

The image crackles and fizzes, resolving into low-res silhouettes. The noise takes on a pattern. Sounds that are almost recognizable as speech. Waver leans in close and narrows his focus to his ears, closing his eyes to stitch the sound into meaning. 

Flat’s voice breaks through. It is tinny and distorted, but audible. “... don’t know them.” 

“You don’t?” Watcher sounds amused. “I was so sure that you two spent time together. Was I mistaken?” When Flat’s voice does not come, Watcher’s cuts back through. “Then let’s say, hypothetically, that you did know them. If you were in their position, why would you want to send someone to the Foundation? And what would you say to make them cooperate?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I see.” Watcher’s sigh comes through as a rush of noise. “I do wonder what you went through before you came here. Not with Jack of course. I was watching by then, but before that I was distracted with other pursuits. There is always so much going on in the world. It is impossible to pay attention to all of it.” 

Waver leans in closer, straining his ears and cursing the connection. The screen flickers. For an instant, he sees two silhouettes- one, undoubtedly Flat Escardos, or the thing that uses his name. The other is massive. It all but crowds Flat out of the frame. Whatever it is is completely obstructing his view of Watcher. He twists in his seat to find Sigma staring at the screen with the same wide eyes. “What is  _ that? _ ” he hisses. Sigma shakes his head. 

Watcher may be missing, but his voice is still present. “Well, it looks like you are not in the mood to talk. I suppose that I should thank you for listening to me in the first place. That was very generous of you.” 

Waver is so close to the screen that he can feel the static tickle his nose. 

For a second, a second’s second, the mass solidifies into…  _ something _ . He jerks back with a curse. Sigma jolts in the corner of his eye. 

The static cracks back with a vengeance.

The sound alone makes Waver jump back, his heart skipping a beat or seven as the silhouettes dissolve once again into nothing, the voices turning into nothing but white noise.

What neither Sigma or Waver knew was that this was intentional.

In the room, Watcher smiles serenely as 9664 stares at the space right above his head, as if trying to burn a hole into it.

“He’s watching isn’t he? Doctor Velvet.” They say, voice level but as sharp as a blade. It does not make even a mere scratch on Watcher’s confidence, whose smile tells them all they need to know. “I will not talk to you again while he is watching.”

“And why not?” Watcher asks, fully aware of the answer that, perhaps, even the boy in front of him was not aware of. 

The answer that they give is proof enough of that. “Because he’s a mere human. There’s no reason for us to explain something that is out of his—and everyone else’s—scope.”

To that, Watcher can’t help but laugh. Or he can, but an answer like that was simply too good  _ not _ to enjoy. The way that their face twists in irritation only makes it all the more enjoyable. “Boy, a word of advice for you. And while I understand that you may be against following anything  _ I _ say, I will do so anyways.” He takes a step forward, and they feel themselves taking a step back on impulse. “Do not underestimate humans. To do so would be a grave mistake on your part. Understand?”

They bare their teeth, practically hissing. “Get. Away. From. Me.”

The world around them cracks further, but Watcher does not budge in the slightest. If anything, they shrug with a nonchalant air that is both annoying and surprising. “You could have left at any time if you had wanted to. I cannot stop you from doing so, after all.” There’s a chuckle at the end, soft but with a hint of mischievousness that is impossible to miss. “But thank you again for listening to my rambling—Sigma simply is not as interested in it as you are! And since you  _ have _ waited so patiently, I suppose that it is time that they escort you back to your cell.”

In the room with Waver and Sigma, the two of them watch the static on the screen dissolve almost entirely. 

Watcher looks up at the camera, and Waver swears that he feels those eyes stare through his very being. 

“Dr. Velvet, do you mind escorting subject 9664 back to their cell?”

Waver nearly throws the empty mug at the television screen and Sigma learns interestingly new ways to combine curse words to make them sound even more offensive. 

  
  


\--

Watcher feels his heart stutter for the second time in the past ten minutes when the-thing-that-is-not-Flat opens the door to Watcher’s office. They stand in the doorframe, still enough that Waver wonders (hopes) that time has stopped. But then they look over their shoulder, back into the office. 

Watcher smiles and waves from their chair, and 9664 whips back to face Waver with frightening speed. “Take me back.” 

Waver cannot imagine many circumstances where life in a monochrome cell would be preferable to literally anything else . He thinks he understands this one. As he turns to leave, Sigma slips into the office behind him. 

The walk back to Flat’s containment chamber has never been short, but it feels like miles with what amounts to a teenage deity sulking behind him. Halfway down some God-forsaken hallway, Waver clears his throat. “What did Watcher want to speak to you about?” 

9664 stays resolutely silent. 

“You seemed like you were talking about someone.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

The air feels thick in a way that Waver regrets recognizing. He thinks that he would have to be insane to keep pushing 9664 like this, but he remembers, as his mouth opens again, that his world has not been sane in years. “Why not?” 

9664 goes silent. Waver turns his head to make sure that they are still following him. They are, brow knit with irritation. It is the most human he’s ever seen them. 

“Flat?” 

Waver has one more moment of navy eyes before something shifts and Flat’s posture relaxes. In the time it takes them to blink, their face flicks from frown to grin. “Dr. Velvet! What’re you doing here? I thought that Sigma was gonna take me back!” 

Relief and exhaustion hit Waver in equal measure. He presses a palm to his forehead and counts back from five so the shift in mood does not overwhelm him. “Running away, huh?” 

Flat cranes around him to get a look at his face. “What?” 

“Nothing. How was your meeting?” 

Flat hums, increasing his speed to walk by his side. They are almost at his cell, but he does not seem to dread it the way he used to. “I dunno. I don’t remember a whole lot.” The way he frowns is altogether different from 9664’s scowl. “I don’t think I liked it though. Have you talked to Watcher before?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you remember it?” 

“Yes.” They turn the corner, and a nameplate with Flat’s designation shifts into view. They stop outside his door. Flat frowns as if there is something on his mind. 

“What are they like?” 

“Awful.” 

“Oh.” Flat hangs on the syllable for a moment before he picks back up to his usual pep. “Well, guess I’ve gotta go! Thanks for walking me back, Dr. Velvet! Are you gonna stop by tomorrow?” 

It hurts to crush that hope, so Waver does not. He scratches at the nape of his neck and sighs. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.” 

A harsh beep accompanies the opening of the containment chamber. Flat bounces on the balls of his feet when he hops inside. “Bye, Dr. Velvet!” 

“Goodbye, Flat.” 

Only when the door is shut and locked does Waver allows his to shoulders drop. He presses his back against the wall and lets gravity drag him down to the floor. “This place is going to be the death of me.” He thinks he hears someone laughing, and he is not entirely sure that it is his imagination. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i apologize for the long wait between chapters. this was actually a rather difficult one to write, and starting a new job did not help in the least. i’m super grateful for my coauthor in helping me write this ahahaha.
> 
> also my laptop is dead and that does not help this—but that’s what ios google docs is for, right?


	15. Consultation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waver has several meetings. At least they're not boring.

Waver is growing into his office. They’ve given him a salary and a pass to the nearest town. He’s used his first paycheck to buy alcohol to hide in a drawer, and his second to purchase a few books. A portion of his third goes to a sad little plant that he keeps on his desk. It makes him feel saner and more unhinged all at once. 

The phone on his desk is more a brick than a device. It must be as old as he is, and finds himself wondering if the Foundation’s sometimes antiquated technology is an aesthetic choice or a containment procedure of its own. It does not occur to him to wonder if it is a problem with budget. He still does not know where they get their money, but there is plenty to go around. 

It rings at 2pm on a Thursday, and Waver glares at it as if it has done something to offend him. He lets it ring three times before he wrenches it from its cradle. “Dr. Velvet speaking. What is it?” 

There is no voice on the other end for seconds. It reminds him of the robocalls he got before he was framed for murder, where the machine would wait to confirm a human voice before playing. Then a voice, that he was sure he’s never heard before, speaks. “Hello Dr. Velvet. My name is Solomon.” 

“Well, _that_ is a name.” 

Solomon clears his throat. “I would like to discuss something with you. Please meet me in my office in half an hour. I have added the details to your calendar.” 

Waver opens up the browser on his computer with his off hand and navigates to his calendar. There is a new hour’s block cut out of his afternoon. The office listed under the event is on the opposite side of the facility, not far from Watcher’s. Most of the offices in that area have receptionists. Waver does not bother to hide his displeasure. “I don’t suppose I can refuse?” 

“That would be very inconvenient for both of us,” Solomon says, and Waver cannot hear it as anything other than a warning. 

He looks to the little window in the upper left hand corner of his monitor that shows Flat sitting on his bed, kicking his heels against the mattress. He has been doing that a lot lately. Waver makes another note to get him some books and games if he can. He can’t imagine that a bored reality bender is a safe reality bender. 

“Dr. Velvet?” 

“Fine.” He slams the phone back down. The cradle shakes, and he _hopes_ that he’s broken it. At the very least, it does not ring again. 

\--

Solomon is “Director Solomon,” or so says the name plate beside his door. Waver wonders if he directs the site or the Foundation as a whole. The plate is temporary, so he suspects the latter. While Waver has never been assigned to any other site, the other researchers suggest that this is one of the smaller complexes in the Foundation’s care. It is not the sort of place the director, or director _s_ of the Foundation would spend their time. Then again, Waver is not the type of person a director should want to speak to. 

He knocks, and a woman’s voice asks him to wait a moment. 

She hops out the door on stiletto heels and grabs his hands. “Waver?” Waver tries his damndest not to wince. He fails miserably. The woman (Solomon’s secretary? Are blouses that dip that low even allowed in this sort of environment?) drags him through the door with muscles he would not have guessed she had. “Waver Velvet is here!” 

“Please send him in.” 

Waver hardly has a moment to catch his balance before his arms are pinwheeling into the office. 

Solomon has the kind of face that could be any age at all, though his white hair makes him look older. If Waver were not used to Watcher’s eccentricities, he would be taken aback by the antiquated white robes he wears. As it is, he is merely irate that so many of the higher ups come to work looking like they’ve just left a high-end toga party. 

He collapses into the chair opposite Solomon and looks around. Both the furniture and view are considerably nicer than Waver or even Watcher’s office. Solomon is backlit by a large window that overlooks the entire facility. It is not a beautiful view, but it is the best he’s seen in the entire complex. His lip curls in disgust. 

“Well? What do you want from me?” 

Solomon’s chin drops, though his expression does not change. “You are just as blunt as they say,” he laments. “Though there is merit in being direct. I will do the same.” He braces his hand on his monitor and turns it for Waver’s consideration. “Watcher has told me that you have been working closely with them to monitor 9664. They were also responsible for your promotion to researcher. They must be very fond of you. I suspect that they have told you a great many things.” 

“Too much,” Waver scoffs. His fingers twitch to his pocket. Despite the time that has passed since his promotion, he is still surprised to find his cigar case. He draws it out and flicks it open. One look at Solomon’s frown, and he closes it again. He is blunt, but he is not entirely inconsiderate. “But I get the feeling that you’re asking about something specific. Well? What do you want to know?” 

“What are they planning?” 

It is exactly the sort of question that Waver’s asked himself a thousand times, and is sure he will repeat a thousand more. He has to laugh. 

“What is so funny?” 

“What do you think?” His smile hurts after so long frowning. 

“You don’t know?” 

“Do you think that I have any idea what goes on in their head? Have you _met_ them?” 

Solomon is momentarily taken aback. He frowns. “Their plan with regards to SCP 9664,” he clarifies. As if that helps. “I am sure that you are aware that this is a delicate situation. The fate of the world could well be in the balance. I need you to tell me everything that you know.” 

This is a waste of time for both of them. Waver’s foot taps against the carpet, and he glances out the window. There is no clock in the room that he can see, and the angle of the sun does not provide any clues. Solomon scheduled this meeting for one hour. He wonders if he can cut it short. “Why don’t you just ask them?” 

“Do you really think they would tell me if they have not told you?”

“Tell you?” Waver heaves another laugh. “Now I am _sure_ you haven’t met them. I’ve never met someone so eager to talk in my life, and I was an academic!” 

“Then would you ask on my behalf?” 

“For _fuck’s sake!_ ” He stands from his chair so fast that his knees knock it over. He jumps at the sound, but makes no move to right it. “You, Watcher, everyone in this place! None of you are willing to do a lick of dirty work. You just pass it off to people who can’t refuse. At least Watcher has the excuse that they have no mass!” 

The woman with the lilac hair pokes her head in the door. 

Waver wrenches it the rest of the way open. “I am tired of playing your games, and I don’t have to. I am here for myself and for those kids and _no one else._ ” His hand is shaking. He is not sure if it is from anger or fear, but he cannot stop. “Get off your throne and struggle in the mud with the rest of us. If you can’t do that, then you don’t deserve it. I’m leaving.” 

He thinks he hears the woman’s voice calling after him as he leaves, but he ignores it.

The sound of his feet stomping on the lonesome corridors is almost inaudible over the way his heart beats rapidly, angrily. But as he separates himself farther from that office, the more that his emotions cool down and he’s able to see just how foolish he was. Whoever that person was, they must have been at the same rank as Watcher. Perhaps higher. Either way, they are much farther above in the food chain than _he_ is, and an outburst like that could cost him the little that he has been able to gain. 

“Damn it, Waver Velvet…” He hisses to himself, standing in front of the office that had, somehow, become his own. He clenches his jaw to the point that it hurts, and as soon as he is in his office he decides to go for the alcohol he had hidden. He supposes that, in comparison to all of the horrible things both trapped and walking around the Foundation sites, drinking from a hidden bottle of whiskey was one of the least dangerous things there could be. 

A little pathetic, though, but Waver was aware that his pride had long since crumbled into a fine dust. The whiskey burns down his throat as he drinks it straight from the bottle (he makes a mental note to use his next paycheck to buy actual glasses), but even that is more gentle than the harsh, bizarre reality that they’ve been thrust into. 

The great and occasionally merciful universe allows him multiple hours to contemplate his fate. When the lights click off, and the surveillance camera monitoring Flat switches to infrared, he caps his bottle and shoves it into his drawer. The clock reads 10 in the evening. No one has come to scold him yet, but there is always tomorrow. He stands, and wobbles on his feet. HIs head is swimming, thanks in no small part to the alcohol. The walk back to his room is a long one, and while he does not think that he is going to throw up, extended movement is probably a bad idea. 

His chair here is more comfortable than the bed in his previous cell. He resigns himself to it, and rests his head against the cool wood of his desk.

He does not dream. 

\--

Sharp knocks punch holes through Waver’s unconsciousness. He wakes to shooting pain in his head, nausea in his chest, and a throat so dry it hurts. He tries to grab on to whatever dream the sound is coming from, because sleep is better than _this,_ but he can’t quite grasp it. 

The knocking pauses then repeats. 

It is coming from the door. 

Waver cracks his eyes open and immediately regrets it. It has been years since his last hangover, but not nearly long enough. “Alright, alright! Just stop knocking!” The words scrape in his throat, and he coughs. Why hadn’t he thought to grab a glass of water with his drink last night?

Standing up nearly turns to sitting down when the dizziness overtakes him, but he braces his hands against his desk and pushes through it. He does not open the door so much as he grabs the handle, turns it, and leans back, letting gravity do the bulk of the work. 

The young woman waiting in the hallway looks shocked. Waver cannot blame her. He is sure that he must look a sight. There’s a crick in his neck, his jacket is creased and he can feel the snarls in his hair. She composes herself quickly. “I-I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?” 

It is a bad time, but considering how his life is going, there will never be a better one. He shambles to the side and holds out an arm. “No. Come in.” 

She hesitates only a moment before tip-toeing past him. That consideration allows his head to clear just a little more. Thinking still feels walking through water, but he recognizes her. Even in a place as eccentric as the Foundation, she stands out. No one else wears a cloak or keeps a cage clipped to their belt. While the other researchers are reluctant to speak to her, he thinks her name is Gray, though he can’t be sure. 

She waits for him to sit back behind his desk before speaking. She does not sit herself. “Um… I was asked to bring you a message.” 

“Wait.” 

Gray starts. 

“The person who asked you- Was their name Watcher?” 

Her hands twist in her skirt, and her shoulders bunch, like a child who’s being scolded. “Y-yes?” 

Waver buries his head in his arms and his groan is loud enough to jar his aching brain. “Tell them,” he grasps for the words that can convey his current emotional state. How can he communicate his confusion, frustration, fear, and exhaustion? “Tell them to fuck off.” Not quite as articulate as he’d hoped, but he thinks that covers it. 

The look on her face, however, makes him regret his words almost immediately. Underneath her hood, she stares down at him with wide, green eyes, like she cannot believe what she had just heard, and much less that she would have to relay that message back to her superior. 

He stops, re-evaluates his words, and the previous evening comes crashing back without mercy. The minute expression of shock on Solomon’s face that had driven him to drink bleeds into 9664’s confusion, into every glare he’s ever received from affronted researchers. Gray’s shock is mild in comparison, but the innocence of it strikes a little harder. He presses his palm over his face and forces the gears in his head to turn. “No. Don’t actually tell them that. I’m sorry. It has been a long day.” 

The clock on his computer reads a little after nine in the morning. 

Gray looks concerned. “Would… would you like me to bring you some coffee?” 

“ _God,_ yes.” 

“I’ll- I’ll be right back then.” 

Waver presses his aching head into his hands and considers. He has just woken up, in his office in last night’s clothes, with a horrible hangover and he’s gone and asked one of Watcher’s assistants to fetch him coffee after telling one of the directors to shove it. His life to date was a veritable pile of questionable decisions, but he wondered if the ones he’d made in the last twenty-four hours might take the cake. 

What was his next move then? Even now, there was no life for him outside of the Foundation: he was still a convicted killer with a life sentence to the outside world. Given that the Foundation’s security is more for keeping things in than keeping people out, he has little chance of running away undetected regardless. His eyes drift to his monitor, and Flat humming away in his room. If he leaves, they will put someone else in charge of Flat, and he doubts they will be kind. 

When Gray returns with his cup of coffee, she seems concerned rather than annoyed. “Excuse me- Are you alright?” 

“Fine, just fine. Thank you. For asking, and for the coffee.” He takes a sip, wrinkles his nose at the taste, and takes another. “Have you worked for Watcher long?” 

“Oh! No, I,” she shifts her weight, suddenly absorbed in the books he’s piled on the shelves. “I don’t work for Watcher. I just… Like to help them a little when I can. There isn’t much else for me to do here.” She holds herself as if someone is going to yell at her, arms clutched tight against her chest. But her grip loosens a moment, and she looks up to look at him square-on. “If it’s alright, you can ask me if you ever need anything.” 

There’s a warmth in Waver’s chest that he is feeling more often lately. If it weren’t so ridiculous, he’d compare it to the affection a father felt for his children, but he is no father, and there are no children here. 

“Thank you, Gray. I may take you up on that.” 

She ducks her head deep into her hood- so far that he hardly catches her nod. 

\--

Gray did not last for long after that chat, though she did insist to wash the coffee mug once he was done with it. Yet another strange, touching gesture that he had grown so unused to in his life at the Foundation, being used as one of its few toys that refused to fully break. 

Waver knows that he is held together by the equivalent of duct tape and sheer, foolish stubbornness, though, and god knows how long that will last him. But he is going to use it for as long as he can. 

In other words, he has to figure out just what Watcher had planned. Easier said than done. He figures there is a 50/50 chance that they will tell him if he asked, but he gets the feeling that, if they tell him directly, he will get even more tangled up in their web than he already was. Sigma does not seem the type to talk, but there is one person in the Foundation who seems to have a little insight. 

As his designated researcher, getting into Flat’s containment chamber is considerably easier than it had once been. Flat is, predictably, delighted to see him. It is difficult to explain why he is there, but he forces himself to speak. 

“I am not here to talk to you. Bring the other one out.” 

Flat seems confused to start. His eyebrows pinch together, and he opens his mouth to ask, but cuts himself off. It is unsettling, seeing his eyes darken in real time. Despite multiple encounters, Waver still needs to steel himself against his instinctive fear. 

9664’s expression is cautiously neutral, though Waver can see the annoyance lying under the surface. He swallows. “I want to talk about Watcher.” 

Their mask cracks another millimeter. “Why?” 

“They are planning something, and I think you know what it is. At least, more than me.” 

Waver had expected reluctance, but he had not anticipated this level of rejection. 9664 braced their shoulders and frowned. “No.” 

“I was trying to avoid asking Watcher directly.” 

“No. Stop prying. It’s not your business.” 

Even when killing, 9664 had never seemed this hostile. Waver swallows the lump in his throat and pushes forward. “Why not? You and Flat are under my care. I think that I, of all people, should know what’s going on.” 

9664’s shoulders drop just enough to notice. They close their eyes for a long moment, and Waver can all but see the scales weighing their options tilt from side to side. They settle faster than he’d expected. “No. If I tell you then you’ll get mixed up in something horrible.” 

“And what could be more horrible than where we already are?” 

“That’s what I used to think.” There’s an exhaustion about them that Waver’s never seen, even when the Foundation was ripping Flat limb from limb. “Look. You clearly don’t care about your own life. Fine. But I,” they go stil, and Waver cannot tell whether it is a thought or a memory that’s taken hold of them. “It will be bad for Flat if you die. I can’t stop you, but I am not going to help you.” 

“If you’re so sure, why don’t you tell me yourself?” 

9664 closes their eyes, and for a moment, Waver thinks that they are considering their options again. But then they look back up at him with a confused smile, and he knows he’s lost them. “Sorry! I zoned out for a second there! Who did you wanna talk to? Are you bringing a guest?” 

“No, I think that that’s all I needed.” But something strikes him- a memory of a thought from the night before. “Is there anything you’d like me to bring you? I can’t do much, but if it is something small, like a book or a game, I think I can manage.” 

Flat’s face lights right up, and he bounces in place. “Can I get a Playstation?” 

It’s Waver’s turn to wince. “I’ll… See what I can do.” 

“Thanks, Dr. Velvet!” 

Waver turns back to the door, and nods at the camera. The inner door swings open, but before he can step through it, Flat calls out. 

“Dr. Velvet?” 

He tangles his hand in his hair, and sighs. “Yes?” 

“Lately,” Flat sounds hesitant- nervous in a way that Waver has not heard in months. “I feel like there’s someone watching me.” 

Waver glances at the surveillance camera. “Well, yes. I thought you knew that.” He thinks that that will be the end of it, but Flat raises his voice. 

“Not just me though. It kinda feels like someone’s watching all of us. You, me, Jack,” 

“Could it be Watcher?” he asks sardonically, though there’s a sinking feeling building up inside. During their conversation, Jack mentioned that Flat always seemed to know when the Foundation was after them. 

Flat seems to consider it for a moment, but then shakes his head. “No. I think they’re watching all of us. Probably the entire Foundation.” 

“Are you sure?” 

He nods, and the room feels a little colder. 

Waver pulls his collar up tighter around his neck and nods. “Thank you. I will keep an eye out.” 

Flat seems relieved as Waver leaves, though he feels all the worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful coauthor for all the help! 
> 
> I have no idea where we are in terms of the story, but I know we're progressing steadily.


	16. Visitor Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flat receives a present. 
> 
> Waver had yet another unpleasant meeting.

The weeks that follow are largely uneventful. Only a string of dull meetings and discussions between Waver and his so-called “peers”, and the series of routine tests that are performed on Flat twice a week.

There are no breaches. No one disappears. Beyond Flat turning his usual boring lunch into a pizza with a snap of his fingers, there are no events that could be described as “noteworthy”. 

And yet, in a time that he would have otherwise considered “peaceful”, Waver feels anything but. Flat’s words weigh on him, creeping up the moment he thinks he’s left them behind. While he had not been ignorant of them before, he finds himself taking note of the ubiquitous surveillance cameras. They dot the ceilings, backups piled on backups in case of malfunction. 

They make sense. The Foundation and the things inside it cannot be left to their own devices. But still. 

Flat does not mention it again, and whenever Waver brings it up, he catches him looking off through the walls. 

It crawls under his skin like nothing at the Foundation has before. He doesn’t like it, but he’s never liked any of this anyway. 

Gray comes by more often. 

She brings coffee with her, and she learns quickly. It’s just the way he likes it within days. He tells her that she does not have to, but she always dismisses his concerns with a shake of her head. At one point he asks her whether Watcher would be upset that she is spending so much time away. “I don’t think so,” she tells him. “They have Sigma now, so I don’t think they mind.” 

He takes her word for it. 

And life goes on. 

\--

Flat is sleeping more often lately. In the past Waver’d been dismayed by just how little he slept. He would not have blamed him for sleeping ten hours or more a day when there is very little else to do in his room, but he’s always slept no more than six in a night, and tapped his feet or paced around his room to burn off excess energy during the day. 

Now he is up to eight or nine hours. He is taking naps.

Disturbances in the video feeds occur with more frequency. It only lasts a few seconds, but what would only happen once a day is now happening two or three times.

Maybe it isn’t anything. Maybe it is. Waver can’t be sure. 

There are new D-Class personnel to bring Flat his meals, but Waver snatches up his breakfast before they arrive. 

There is someone standing outside of the kitchen when he emerges. He is not wearing D-Class orange or the lab coats of a researcher, the fatigues of an agent, or the soft cotton of an administrator. His long grey coat stinks of outside air. 

New faces are not rare at the Site, but they usually belong to the ever-rotating cast of D-Classes. New personnel in any other position are rare enough to draw comment. Waver is not tied into the cafeteria gossip network, but he is sure someone would have told him if someone had joined the staff. He makes a note to ask Gray about it later. He’ll be damned if he’ll go to Watcher. 

\--

Flat does not stir when the second lock opens. He is tucked tight into a ball under the covers, and if he is sleeping, it does not look restful. Waver slams his feet against the floor with every step, but Flat does not move to rise. If anything, he curls in deeper against himself to the point that Waver is sure that it must hurt. He puts the tray of food aside and rips the sheets from the bed. 

A brush of noise passes over his skin, like the crackling plaguing the cell’s security cameras, and Flat lifts his head. It isn’t the usual zero-to-one hundred transition. Instead, Flat takes it in stages, uncoiling his limbs and rubbing at his eyes. 

“Mmh. Dr. Velvet?” 

Dark circles stain his cheeks, but he sounds as bright as ever. 

Still.

“You look awful.” Waver picks up the tray of food and drops it at the foot of Flat’s bed. The biodegradable cutlery makes a sad thunk when he drops it. “Eat.” 

At first, Flat looks at it like it’s something foreign; like it’s something that he can’t understand by sight alone. After a few blinks, however, he takes the tray and sets it on his lap to start eating. 

“Do I really look that bad, Doctor?” he asks between bites. 

Waver takes another moment to observe him. His eyes are puffy and red from exhaustion, and he’s sure that he’s lost weight. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week. Hold still.” Flat does, while he presses the back of his hand to his forehead. It’s blazing hot. “How do you feel?”

“A little sleepy,” Flat admits.

“Is that all?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Hm.” 

Flat tucks into his food with the usual enthusiasm, if not the usual hurry. He’s hardly taken a handful of bites before he puts his fork down and leans forward. “I know you’re really busy, but do you think I can see Jack again soon?”

_ Not when you have a fever that could boil someone from the inside out, _ is Waver’s initial response. He refrains from saying it, however, as the look on Flat’s face holds far too much enthusiasm for him to have the heart to snuff it out. 

“I’ll see what happens. First we need you to get some rest and I’ll need to monitor your vitals closely. I’d rather if you didn’t get anyone else sick because of your stupidity.”

A beat. Flat takes another bite of his food, seemingly deep in thought. “Wouldn’t you be getting sick then, Doctor Velvet? I mean, you’re right here.”

Well, he’s not wrong. But Waver rolls his eyes regardless, smacking Flat over the head lightly. “I’ll be fine.”

Flat grins and tucks back into his food with considerably more conviction. Waver watches, not really sure why he bothers. It is true that Flat has never shown signs of illness before, and he is in isolation where few germs should reach, but that does not mean that he has reason to worry. Flat has survived more poison, bullets, and acid than anyone could have imagined. He does not even  _ feel  _ sick. There is no reason to worry. 

But Waver still finds himself in Jack’s containment chamber that afternoon. 

Jack seems one part amused, two parts grateful for his concern. “He got a cold once while we were traveling,” they tell him. “He was miserable. Snot everywhere. But he kept telling me that he felt fine. He doesn’t seem to like people worrying about him.” There’s an exasperation in their tone that Waver can’t help but mirror. 

“So what did you do?” 

They wince and pinch their eyebrows. 

Wave echoes the motion. “Was it that bad?” 

Jack’s voice is so quiet that he has to ask them to repeat themself. 

“I gave them Nyquil.” 

Horror and amusement escape Waver in something that’s between a shout and a laugh. He covers his mouth with his hand, unsure what to say next. The way Jack is looking at him with just a little shame tells him that he does not have to say anything. 

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” 

“Right.” 

Jack seems relieved.

But there is something that is still bothering Waver. He thinks back to the files and their previous conversations, pouring over everything, but comes up with nothing. “I thought you’d said you never noted the things he could do…?” 

“I didn’t notice.” Jack hikes up their knee onto their bed and rests their arm against it, grimace smashed into a smile. “And it wasn’t like he did anything strange. It was more… The things he said when he was about to pass out.” 

Waver doesn’t realize he is leaning forward until he has to adjust his balance. It feels like he’s on to something. “What did he say?” 

“He kept apologizing. Said that he was being bad and selfish. I really didn’t get it. I’m a serial killer. Why would he apologize to me for something like that? As far as I knew, he was an angel in comparison. If it weren’t for him, I would’ve been all alone and gotten caught a lot sooner.” 

“Did you ask him what he meant?” 

Jack rolls their shoulder and shakes their head. “I did the next morning, but he said he didn’t know what I was talking about. He’s a bad liar. I think that he was telling the truth.”

“And it wasn’t that ‘other’ Flat. They don’t seem the type to apologize for anything so trivial,” Waver agrees. Another mystery to tuck away for later. They are piling up faster than he can make sense of them. “So no cold medicine. Right.” 

“He was fine the next morning,” Jack admits. “But who knows what would happen this time? Better skip it.” 

“Right.” Waver gestures for the camera. The lock of the innermost door clicks open. “Thank you, Jack.” 

They smile. “Thank  _ you _ for keeping an eye on him. He got really lucky having you in charge.” 

Waver does not know what to say, so he leaves without speaking. Jack waves him out. 

\--

Flat’s fever comes and goes like the night, breaking just before he sleeps and rising when he wakes. There is no evidence that he is sick, other than his persistent temperature and time asleep. Waver is concerned regardless. He’s taken to visiting Flat several times a week to check on him personally. It eats into his schedule but he feels like he is in no position to stop. 

Gray’s presence is a balm on his exhaustion. She hides behind her hood more often than not, but she has been staying a little longer every day. He has become used to her presence, reading a book in the corner of his office or scolding the thing in the cage when it interrupts his work.

She is not there now, but she won’t be long. She’d noticed the way he’d started cradling his head and offered to get him another coffee. He’d taken her up on it. 

The hollow tap of a fist against the door catches his attention, and he allows himself a sigh. He has told her countless times that she does not need to knock, but she can’t seem to shake the habit.

“You can come in.” 

The door whisks open, but Gray does not follow. In her place is the young man in the grey coat. He has a badge now that he did not when Waver’d first spotted him outside the cafeteria several days before. The color marks it as a temporary one. Waver’s eyes flick back up to his face. “Who are you?” 

“Faldeus Dioland,” the stranger offers. He holds his hand across the desk. Waver takes it more out of obligation than any desire to do so. Faldeus’s grip is just this side of too weak. “The U.N. sent me over to inspect the site. I guess someone needs to make sure that those funds aren’t going to waste!” 

There is something rotten about his sheepish laugh. It doesn’t settle right on Waver’s ears. It makes him wipe his hand on his sleeve after he reclaims it. 

“The administrative offices are on the other side of the building.” 

“Oh- yeah. I came from there. I’m actually here to see you.” 

Waver does not bother hiding his grimace. A thousand memories of his university’s disbursements department surface, and none of them are pleasant. He settles back into his chair for the long haul. “What do you want?” 

Faldeus invites himself to sit. He has a briefcase in his off hand, and he selects a manilla folder from it with a familiar quartet of digits stamped on the front. “You recently put in a request for some additional ‘containment equipment’ for 9664? My supervisor wanted me to ask about it.”

The question hits Waver like a migraine. He opens the drawer where he keeps his ibuprofen and palms the bottle. “I did.” 

“It looks like you…” Faldeus glances at the file, and his brows knit up in confusion. “Requested a retro gaming console, and a television to go with it? Is that part of the containment procedures somehow?” 

“Yes. Keeping reality benders occupied is one of the best ways to make sure they don’t get in any additional trouble.” 

Faldeus cocks his head in apparent surprise. “So if you have it, it’ll be easier to contain this, uh,” he checks his papers. “Reality bender.” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay.” Faldeus spends another moment scratching some additional notes into his file, before snapping it closed. “Thank you. I think that’s everything! I really appreciate it.”

Relief washes over Waver like a wave, though he can’t place why. He attributes it to the immense irritation he’s beginning to associate with Faldeus’s face. He stands to hold the door for him, but Faldeus hesitates above his chair. 

“Is that okay though?” 

“What? The console?” 

Faldeus twists the toe of his shoe into Waver’s carpet, drilling dirt deep into the rug. “Everyone’s saying that it can be really bad if you get too close to the things you’re containing. That bad stuff will happen. But you seem like you’re paying a lot of attention to this one. Are you sure you’re gonna be alright?” 

It is one of the many warnings he’d received during his orientation. He’s heard all of the horror stories more than once: People dying, falling under the sway of SCPs, or even becoming SCPs themselves. There are an infinite number of unpleasant possibilities, particularly with a reality bender as powerful as Flat Escardos, but Waver has weighed those risks against his experience and accepted them. He pulls open the door. 

“Get out.” 

Faldeus seems genuinely surprised. His arms dangle loose by his sides and his briefcase slips to the tips of his fingers, but he gathers himself and smiles. “Right. I’m sorry. I’m sure that you’re really busy.” 

Waver glares until the door clicks shut. 

\--

The bastards in charge of acquisitions are stubborn, but Waver has them beat. Though it pains him to admit it, it helps to have Watcher on his side. He is now certain that they were, at the very least, a site director and probably more. One word from them, and his roadblocks evaporated. It would be delightful if it weren’t such a blow to his pride. 

No matter how much he’s sacrificed, it is all worth it when he sees Flat’s face light up. There is something infectious about it, and it hurts his cheeks, but he mimics it. “I couldn’t get you a Playstation,” he warns. 

Flat does not seem deterred in the least. He hops to his feet and rushes over, buzzing around, but always keeping a few feet between them. HIs attention is fixed on the box. “What’s in that?” 

“Why don’t you take a look for yourself?” 

It is out of his hands before he can even make an attempt at handing it to Flat. 

Flat shakes the box several times, presses his ear against it, and his eyes widen like he knows. Waver lets him tear into the box, his smile growing until he seems to glow. 

The console is not anything special. It cost a mere thirty dollars, and the only games it can run come pre-installed and are well past their expiration date. Flat cradles it like it is worth its weight in gold. 

“I’ll be bringing the television by later today. They’re going to transfer you out of the cell some time tomorrow to do some electrical work so you can plug it in. If you don’t behave yourself, I’ll take it away in a second.” It is not a terrible threat, considering the things the Foundation has done to Flat since his arrival, but it does not need to be. Waver knows that Flat would not dare risk losing his newest treasure. 

Given Flat’s excitement, Waver is confused when he sets the console down. But then something hits him, and two scraggly arms are wrapped around his chest. 

“Thank you, Dr. Velvet! This is awesome! You should come play with me sometime, okay?” 

Waver sighs and ruffles Flat’s hair. He can feel the fever soaking through his coat, but that can wait. Flat deserves this, and maybe Waver does too. 

Still, he has a construction project to coordinate, a report to file, and a television to deliver. He cannot stay here all day. He extracts himself from Flat’s embrace with an apology that is readily accepted and moves for the door. 

Just before he leaves, the hair on the back of his neck pricks to attention, and he hears a voice that is Flat’s, but isn’t. 

“Thank you.” 

They are words Waver had never thought he’d hear from them. 

He does not acknowledge it, and he imagines that 9664 would not want him to. He just waves and closes the door behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're sorry this took so long! Real Life conspired to make both of us very busy at the same time, but fear not! We are still working on this fic. 
> 
> Thank you for bearing with us!


	17. Only so much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's why Flat is here. Maybe that's why they're all here.   
> 9664 thinks they'll find out soon.

_ “Here- you do it like this.”  _

_ They hold still while the stranger- Mesala- hooks the buttons of their shirt into place. They’d tried to fasten them themself, but their hands are still new and clumsy as a newborn’s, fumbling over the biggest details.  _

_ There is a vest left, and a tie to go with it.  _

_ It is all too much, strange against skin that still feels strange itself. They do not think that they have had a body before, but they can’t know for sure. Thinking feels like trying to thread a rope through a needle.  _

_ Mesala is careful, but it does not provide much comfort. It is the care of a predator with prey. They can reduce Mesala to atoms with a thought. They are not sure why they are so nervous. It must be those eyes- the bright blue eyes that know what they are but look at them straight-on so they can see the madness boiling within.  _

_ Of course. Anyone who attempted to wake them up had to be mad. Even more-so to succeed. But  _ why _? Even if they are completely insane, why shoulder that risk? Of the thousands upon thousands of questions they have, that one burns the hardest. When they asked, Mesala smiled at them with too-white teeth and said they had a job for them.  _

_ They have no reason to accept the job, and Mesala does not provide one. Mesala does not even propose an incentive. All they do is give instructions and assume they’ll be followed.  _

_ Mesala clears their throat as they help them into the vest. “You’ll need a name of course. We need to make this convincing. What do you think? Do you have any ideas?”  _

_ They hold as still as they are able, and swear that if that tie knots around their neck, they will turn it to ash. (But they won’t. Mesala brought it for them.)  _

_ “You did just wake up. I suppose you aren’t very familiar with names. Let’s see… Your last name can be Escardos. Is that too obvious?” They consider it, laugh, and shake their head. “No, I’m sure that it will be fine. But I’d like you to pick your first name yourself. We are in this together after all.”  _

_ Madness. It’s madness that fuels this human, if they can even call them a human in the first place. Their eyes track Mesala as they pace back and forth. Their mind ticks back and forth in time. They’ve never once known what to do in their very brief existence, and now is no exception. Going with the flow seems easiest. They comb through the brief vocabulary they’ve been exposed to since they gained consciousness and find a sound, a syllable that’s caught their attention.  _

_ “Flat.”  _

_ Mesala stops their pacing. Their mouth purses in the closest thing to surprise they’ve shown. “What is?” _

_ “My name. Flat.”  _

_ “It is not exactly a traditional name,” they say with care. “Are you sure?”  _

_ Flat knows nothing at all, but they are sure of this. They nod.  _

_ “Alright then.” Mesala claps their hands together and smiles to the symbol-stained papers plastered over the walls. “Next we will work on your cover.”  _

_ \--- _

The lights in Flat’s cell are painfully bright. Flat’s cell- not theirs. They picked the name, but it ceased to be theirs a long time ago. They have no need of a name, and if they must have one, 9664 suits them fine. Names are something that humans need. Mesala’s insistence on their alias was the first and only piece of humanity they’d seen in them. 

The dream sticks to their skin like oil, and they can all but feel Mesala’s eyes on their back. 

It makes them sick. 

Not sick in the way Flat is: The moment they wake, they wipe the fever from their head. Their body, kept human for so long, tells them that it cannot possibly sleep any further, so they sit up and stretch. Flat has perfected his time-telling. They guess that it is about an hour before dinner based on the ache in their stomach and the memories he’s left behind. They wonder if Waver will come to see them, or if it will be another one of those interchangeable faces that Flat still tries to endear himself to. 

Flat’s new console sits in the corner next to the television, and its controller is tucked just under the bed. There are no chairs in this room, so Flat has been leaning against the mattress for back support. 9664 slides onto the floor and mimics his habit. 

There’s no desire to play the games that were brought in, and the memories of them are fleeting and superficial. Like background noise in a radio, they are unnecessary and detrimental to achieving their full potential. 

The logical course of action would be to destroy all that stands in their way to functioning at full capacity. It would be quite simple. A single thought could turn it all into ashes and reality would have no choice but to bend to their will. It would be so, so,  _ so  _ simple…

But they don’t. They justify it as it being a waste of energy, but deep down they know that such thoughts contradict the logic that has been imposed on their system since the moment they gained consciousness. It makes them feel uneasy, so they ignore it in favor of staring at the ceiling. 

There have been many things that have made them uneasy since they stepped out into the world. When they’d awoken it seemed as if Mesala held the world in the palm of their hand. 9664 knows now that they’d failed to take a million different things into account, not the least of which was Flat himself. 

Flat brought Jack, and Jack brought a trillion little things they could not begin to fathom. They know what Mesala would say: No matter the setbacks, they have the power to overcome them. 

They wonder if Mesala knew about Watcher and, if they did, why they hadn’t mentioned it. 

The sheets of their bed are rough against their skin, but they are no worse than the sleeping bags they’d conjured up for their days on the run. They trace their fingers over the fibers and wonder where they will be sleeping when they are done here. Some small part of them wonders if Jack will be able to come with them. 

They doubt it. 

\--

“So you’re still here.” 

Faldeus meets Waver’s displeasure with a smile as he sets his tray down across from him. It makes sense, given how crowded the dining hall is and how empty this table remains, but Waver can’t help but question his motives. 

Faldeus shovels bacon into his mouth like he doesn’t see the problem. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of money this place goes through! It makes my head spin. I kinda wish they’d sent someone more experienced along to help me, but apparently all the older guys’ve had way too many amnestics already. They say if you take too many over a long enough period it’ll start bleeding into your memory.” 

Gray slides into the table next to Waver, with Sigma trailing along after. It comes as a relief. While both are far too quiet to interrupt Faldeus’s monologue, they bring memories of countless peaceful mornings. Maybe he is getting a little too used to it here. 

Gray shrinks into her hood a little further and keeps her eyes down. “Um, Dr. Velvet, who is this?” 

“Faldeus Dioland,” Faldeus interjects. He holds out her hand for her to shake. She does not take it, but he hardly seems disappointed. “I’m doing an audit on behalf of the Foundation’s funders. I’ve been here a few weeks and haven’t seen you around. What’s your name?” 

She ducks her head so her eyes are hidden from view. For a moment Waver thinks that she will not answer and he is relieved, though he can’t say why. But she does, in a voice so quiet he’s amazed when their guest repeats her name back. 

Faldeus leans back in his chair and rubs his chin, smearing a line of ketchup across his jaw line. “That’s an unusual name. I think I’d remember it if it were on the payroll, but I don’t remember seeing it… Oh!” He reaches into his briefcase and rifles through a stack of papers. The further he flips, the more unease settles in Waver’s stomach. “Nevermind! You weren’t with the staff- your salary was in with the containment procedures!” 

The clatter of a fork making rapid contact with a plate shocks through Waver, and he feels Gray jump with him. Sigma is quiet where he stands, and remains so as he re-arranges his scattered silverware for transport. He looks down at Gray before leaving for the tray drop. 

For her part, Gray looks to Faldeus, to Waver, to Sigma, and down to her unfinished plate before she stands. “Um, Watcher wanted to see me, so I need to…” Something Waver does not understand anchors her to the table a moment more. “Did you have a meeting too, Dr. Velvet?” 

Waver shakes his head, suppressing his smile. She seems concerned, but she nods and hurries after Sigma regardless. He makes a note to thank her later. 

Faldeus’s eyes are wide in innocent confusion that Waver can’t quite believe. Breakfast tastes worse than usual so he pushes his plate aside and leans in. Faldeus does not lean back to make room. “Did you want something?” 

“Not really.” 

“Are you sure about that?” 

There’s something about the way Faldeus moves that feels just a sliver too late; like his connection is cutting in and out. Waver’s seen those mannerisms when he’d asked his classes a particularly difficult question. But instead of backing down, Faldeus breaks into a laugh and twists the heel of his hand into the nape of his neck. “I guess I was wondering about that console. Did you get it approved?” 

“Yes.” 

Faldeus’s eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open. He puts his apple down to lean in. This time Waver leans back. “Seriously? Wow, this place is wild! So? Did it work?” 

It is a reasonable question, given Faldeus’s stated mission. If he is there to ensure that the Foundation was making good use of its funds, he would want to know whether a seemingly frivolous purchase had a professional use. Waver cleared his throat. “Yes. There haven’t been any incidents since then.” 

“Wow! That’s pretty amazing. I guess in the long run that’s cost-cutting.” Faldeus jots something down on one of his papers and tucks it back into his bag. “They should assign you some more SCPs if you’re that good.” He is packed away in a second, though most of his meal still remains. “I’m leaving later today, so I have a few more people to talk to. Have a good day, Dr. Velvet!” 

Faldeus strides to a different table as promised. 

Waver chokes down the rest of his food. Despite the innocuous conversation, he can’t help but feel that he’s said too much. 

\--

Monotony looks like white walls, beige trays, and cold oatmeal. These things are burned into the back of Jack’s eyelids until it is hard to sleep. They live in their cell, sleep in their cell, and dream of their cell. Its sights and sounds are white noise against the images their ever-changing collection of books conjure. 

What  _ isn’t  _ monotonous is the head that pokes through their door. Not through the opening- no. First comes a nest of red hair with a pair of goggles perched on top. Then a bright face, a set of shoulders and a leg bundled in fatigues, and finally the rest of a Full Adult Woman. Her eyes fix on them and she breaks into a blinding smile. 

“‘Morning, Jack! Hope I’m not intruding!” 

If she is, it is far too late to tell her. She has already made her way into the center of the room, and is looking about with all the curiosity of a tourist. 

Jack watches her, predator and prey warring for control in their mind. They are paralyzed in the middle. 

The door clicks open, and Waver storms through in a whirlwind of irritation. Jack is surprised by how much his face comforts them. 

“Watcher, what the  _ hell? _ ” 

The woman laughs and moves to orbit Waver. “What’s the harm? I’m just curious. Besides. I’ve heard so much about them!” She turns her grin back to Jack, and holds out her hand, though they are still a good ten feet apart. “I’m Watcher. Waver and I are here to pick you up for your irregularly scheduled playdate!” 

There is only one thing that can tie those words together into a lick of sense: Flat. Jack looks to Waver for confirmation and receives a long-suffering eye roll in return. It isn’t a ‘yes,’ but it might as well be a synonym. They get to their feet. 

“He’s feeling better?” 

Waver shrugs his shoulders, while Watcher gestures at the camera. The locks on the doors click open. “His fever has gone up a little, and he’s sleeping more than ever, but he still says that he feels fine and there haven’t been any other symptoms.” 

“It’s been weeks. Are you sure it’s a good time for me to visit?” 

Waver lowers his voice and leans in close. Jack can feel the life radiating off his skin, and that old itch resurges. They have to fight to tamp it down. “Watcher insisted. Hell if I know why though.” 

“I can hear you!” Watcher sings. She has a bounce in her step, and she’s facing towards their destination, but Jack feels like she’s watching regardless. It doesn’t sit right with them. Their only consolation is Waver’s mutual discomfort, and even that isn’t terribly reassuring. 

With familiarity, the walk to Flat’s cell feels a little shorter. Jack spends most of the journey taking in the sights of the hallway. It is only marginally more decorated than their room, but even name plates with numbers provide visual stimulation at this point. 

Flat’s room hardly stands out from the others. It is a simple metal door, with ‘9664’ engraved in a piece of metal bolted to the wall to its side. Waver leaves them then, and Watcher waves him off with a grin on her face. About a minute after he is out of sight, the first door clicks open, and Jack can hear Waver’s muffled voice through the second, announcing that Flat has a visitor. 

They are nearly bowled over when they walk inside. 

Flat is lighter than Jack remembers, but no weaker. It takes most of their strength to pry him off so they can get a better look at him. 

If Waver had not told them, they would not believe that Flat was sick. His face is bright, and he has nothing but energy when he runs to the far corner of the room. The only indication that something is wrong is the fever burn that lingers on Jack’s face where Flat’s cheek had brushed it. 

“I’m really happy to see you again! It’s so boring in here. But guess what! Dr. Velvet got me a console!” 

Jack can’t help the grin threatening their face. Even after all this time apart, it is easy to slip back into Flat’s pace, and all the easier when they are not on the run. They sit beside Flat while he scrambles to turn on the television. 

“Are you going to play?” 

Flat looks at them as if  _ they _ are the strange one, and then deposits a piece of plastic in their hands. It is covered in buttons and toggles, and they’ve never held anything like it in their life. 

“You’re gonna play, Jack!” 

They stare at him in disbelief. “I told you this a long time ago, but I’ve never played a video game before. Besides, it seems like you’re really excited about it.” 

Flat sighs and leans back on one arm, carding his free hand through his hair in a gesture that echoes Waver just a little too closely. “Of course I remember, Jack! That’s exactly why I want you to play it! It’s not fair that I’m the only one who gets to play. C’mon. Press the button with the ‘A’ on it, and I’ll teach you how to play.” 

With Flat’s help, Jack gets ten levels in before they are well and truly stuck. They are proud of their reflexes. They’ve saved them on more than one occasion when one of their victims decided to fight back, but those skills just don’t seem to transfer. More than once they swing the controller so hard to the side that Flat has to dodge to avoid a nasty bruise. He doesn’t seem to mind, but he has gone quiet. 

Jack drops the controller into their lap after their fifth failure. “Okay. I give. Give me a hint.” 

They turn to look at Flat and, for the first time since they’d walked in the door, find that he is not smiling. His expression is flat. Flat like his name and his eyes and his tone of voice when he says, “Who asked you to come here? Was it Dr. Velvet or Watcher?” 

Jack puts the controller down in front of the television and shifts their weight to their palm. “Watcher,” they say with cautious care. “Though Dr. Velvet came with her.” 

The thing-that-is-not-Flat hums and picks up the controller, turning it over and over again in their hands. “This is our first time talking, isn’t it?” 

“If you don’t count the cold medicine…?” Jack hazards. They rotate their knee vertical and plant their foot on the floor. There is nowhere to run even if they try. They do not think that Dr. Velvet has noticed yet. Even if he has, it probably wouldn’t make much difference. 

“That was only half me.” They set the controller aside and reach out to turn off the television. “Flat was doing the talking.” 

The air is still. It does not crackle over Jack’s skin the way it did back then. Their hand loosens a little against the concrete flooring. “If you’re not Flat, what should I call you?” 

“9664 is fine. That’s the name they gave me here.” 

Silence stretches until it snaps. “Why did you try to save me all that time? You knew I was a killer.” 

9664 shrugs. They pick up the controller again and pass it to Jack, who takes it with only a moment’s hesitation. It is cooler now that it is not in use. “That was Flat.” 

“It wasn’t Flat when they caught up with us.” Now that Jack’s adrenaline is draining, other things, other questions are starting to break the surface. “You could’ve just let me get caught without interfering. They never would have tried to capture you.” 

9664 cocks their head so their hair falls in an uneven mess. They have the same tired look Jack remembers in the campfire light when Flat’s face was flushed with fever, though the smile is not there. “Up until that point you were the first and only friend that Flat had ever had. He wouldn’t have taken it well.” 

And just like that, the rest of Jack’s fear washes out. They lean back until they are lying on the down, and spread their arms as far as they will go. It both is and isn’t like back then. The floor is uncomfortable, but it is marginally less so than the forest floor dotted in rocks. The lights are bright and Flat, or 9664, or  _ whoever they are  _ isn’t babbling through the cold medication, but it feels the same. Like late night hikes over unpathed roads, and warm tents out of the rain. 

“Flat was my first friend too.” Jack feels 9664 shift beside them. “He was the first person crazy enough to get close. I still don’t know what he was thinking, but I’m glad he did.” The soft sound of someone lying down hits to their right, and Jack feels the first tentative smile hitting their lips. “I’m just guessing here, just a guess, but you haven’t had one yet, have you?” It feels childish to ask, but they never had a childhood anyway. There is no shame, they think, in making up for lost time. 

“I don’t need friends,” 9664 says. 

It is the least convincing thing that Jack has ever heard. Annoyed, selfish, uneven, they prop themself on their elbow. “I wouldn’t mind another one.” 

9664 is quiet after that. 

\--

The man sitting on the other side of Watcher’s desk does not belong there. His face is far more suited for the pages of a magazine than a barren office in the middle of nowhere. He seems to agree, what with the way his boot raps against the desk’s front facing with practiced impatience.

“You are not the type to call me here for no reason at all. Get to the point or I will see myself out.” 

“You never were one for pleasantries,” Watcher observes. He presses his hand through the surface of his desk, grazing the new stack of documents he’d ask Sigma to bring him. “I came to offer you a favor.” 

“A favor.” Gilgamesh scoffs. The chains draped over his shoulders rattle of their own accord. “As if you have anything of interest to offer me.” 

It is the sort of bluster he always provides. Gilgamesh can back it up, but that does not make it any less exhausting. “This is the sort of favor that will repay itself. But if you insist, I can share a little information.” Watcher points to their computer monitor. “Would you mind turning that around for me?” 

Gilgamesh does no such thing, but the chain on his arm has other ideas. It slithers across the desk, hooks around the corner of the screen, and twists it around. Gilgamesh looks.

The screen is filled with articles Watcher’d prepared in advance. There are no less than a dozen arranged in chronological order. They span five languages and two continents, but they all read the same: An unusual rolling blackout stretching in a straight line, ignoring international borders. The earliest articles pin it at a few feet wide, while the latest estimate half a mile. The articles are from local papers, and each town is closer than the last. 

Gilgamesh heaves a sigh and leans back. “How many teams have they sent out?” 

“They are preparing a third,” Watcher replies, “But I can’t imagine they’ll be enough. It will come down to your task force eventually. I am not in charge of deployments, so it may well reach this facility before you get the call.” 

Gilgamesh’s face splits into a grin. “You’re keeping something from them, aren’t you?” 

Watcher smiles in return. “So, about that favor?” 

“Very well. What do you want?” 

“You have some discretion over the members of your mobile task force, don’t you? You recently took that man- Richard? From MTF Omicron-12. Would you mind another set of helping hands for your next deployment?” 

The chain tips the monitor back to Watcher while Gilgamesh rubs at his chin. There is a smile hiding behind his hand, and Watcher can see it. He makes an act of considering their request the way he always does. The moment that he frowns, Watcher knows he has him. 

“Your protege, I assume?” 

“Oh, so you took notice of him!” Watcher gasps. Gilgamesh gives him a look that could wither crops. In a rare show of restraint, he drops his smile and nods. “I would like you to take Sigma with you. You can consider it a trial run. I may ask again in the future if you’re amenable.” 

“Another one of your games?” Gilgamesh is still smiling, but there’s a bite to it. Watcher is sure he’d cut him with it if he could. 

“Oh, no. I just want him to gain a little practical experience is all.” 

“Undergo additional hardship, you mean.” 

There is a little strain in Watcher’s nod. Gilgamesh catches it. It shows in his face, but he does not voice it. That joke ran stale many lives ago. 

“Very well. If my team is deployed to combat this threat, I will take your toy with me. But if your taste has soured and he does not impress me, I will seek other compensation from you.” 

“Yes, yes. You can go now. I will send you additional details as I get them.” 

Gilgamesh leaves like a whirlwind, not bothering to close the door behind him. Watcher has known him for years, and he has never shown that sort of consideration. At least his weapon is a little better. 

A notification escapes their speakers: Another outage, this one reported by the paper from the closest town. 

Watcher cracks a smile. 

\--

It is just before three in the afternoon, and Waver has not seen Flat wake even once. He is little more than a pile of blankets with a blonde tuft of hair. If not for the surveillance footage and a glimpse of his foot when he shifted, Waver’d think he’d left his room.

It strikes him as strange, but it is not out of line with Flat’s behavior over the past few weeks. The fever has been worsening steadily, and Waver can’t find heads or tails as to why it persists despite his best efforts.

In the back of his head, he wonders if  _ it  _ would know the reason. 

He pulls up his calendar and looks at his afternoon. Meetings cut lines through the rest of his working hours, but there are thirty minutes empty in another fifteen. He is sure Watcher had claimed that spot the night before, but it is empty now. He drops his hands to the keyboard and 

Everything

Goes

Dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hell yeah hell yeAH HELL YEAH


	18. System error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness was the signal of the beginning of the end. All the pieces are set and the pawns begin to move as instructed. 
> 
> All except one.

The darkness was meant to be the sign of an awakening. 

Of a reckoning.

And in the middle of it all, they were supposed to be there, playing the melody of destruction that their conductor and composer had so painstakingly made for them. 

_ ‘I will build a new world for all of us’, Mesala said. Their eyes were distant, staring far past the barren scenery outside the window. If they had to say what that person saw, they would have to say that it went much further than the earth. Mesala saw the orbits of the planets, the life and death of stars and galaxies alike, all the way to the ends of the universe.  _

_ But it was the smile on their face as they looked out, fond and warm, that unnerved them the most. It held the love of someone that did not live within humanity so much as they lived beyond it, overlooking them from a stand-alone point.  _

_ It was the smile of a God that would lovingly bring forth calamity in order to create the world anew. _

When they open their eyes, it is pitch black. 

Even so, they can see their surroundings just fine. They’d confirmed they could with Mesala before coming here. 

Every action that they will take has been spelled out in words a thousand times. Leave the cell. Break the doors. Eliminate any resistance. Let a calamity of horrors loose upon an old and rotten world to clear a space for Mesala’s vision. The Foundation has taught them the taste of poison and the sting of bullets. Neither will stop them now.

Idly, they wonder just how far Mesala had seen this plan through. Had they planned Flat’s existence? Had they factored in Jack and their year-long journey before their containment? Just how far are those bright blue eyes able to see? 

Why are they having so many questions in the first place? They are not meant to question. They are only meant to act.

They’ve known this since the beginning- from the moment they opened their eyes, and Mesala stared down at them with that frightening, frightening smile. The knowledge felt like a spell, moving their body like a puppet on strings, and they wait for the tension to pick up and carry them out the door. It doesn’t come. 

Months of waiting for this moment, and their body will not move. 

Why? 

Another question they cannot answer. 

Sound crashes against their ears. Even this far into the complex, they can feel the building shake. Mesala’s grand design is in motion. Their cue has passed. They need to take their place as soon as possible. This day, this moment is the reason that they were called down into this world, this body, and this era. Every step Flat took along unpathed roads, every breath, every meal, every injury has led up to this moment, and they can do nothing but hesitate. That thought pushes them to their feet. 

Destroy the doors. Eliminate the guards. Release the prisoners. Remake the world. 

Images come unbidden, haunting the outskirts of their thoughts. Strings of rotten flesh, a man locked in a black stone prison, a dog with blood-bright eyes and coal-black fur. 

Their mind wanders while their feet hold still. What will happen to Jack? The plan mandates that they release them with the rest of the anomalies, but then they will be exposed. Vulnerable. Jack is dangerous in their own right, but they are nothing compared to the things Watcher had promised. If they act, Jack will likely die. 

A small, soft voice calls out in the back of their head. They recognize it as Flat’s voice, the  _ human _ that had come to exist throughout the journey that Mesala set them on. A mask that had not only gained sentience, but also created connections with various other humans and beings. But that came with its own questions. Why was that possible? Was it Jack’s fault? Was it theirs? Were they careless? Had they let their powers slip just enough to give ‘Flat’ solid ground? 

They wonder what Mesala would say if they could see them now: Hesitating after everything. 

A deep breath. Silencing Flat is simple in the state that he is now, weakened by the force of reality—it only takes a mere thought. Flat Escardos was never supposed to exist in the first place, therefore it was inevitable that reality would reject him.

That’s right. In the end, they were meant to be alone.

The cameras are off. The curtains are open. There is nowhere to move but forward. To stay still would mean an eternity of imprisonment. To complete their mission is freedom. 

9664 steels their shoulders and reaches for the door. 

There is no door. 

It feels like breathing after a long dive. Reality parts before them like so much smoke. They reach out and stitch the threads aside. The light of a dozen lives march down the hallway in step, no doubt in response to the outage. The facility is crawling with teams just like them. 

They need only  _ glance _ in their direction in order for them to turn to dust, and another for that to disappear as well. The squad has no time to utter screams or call for backup. That is fine with 9664. The guards, the staff, and the researchers will all have to disappear sooner or later. They’ll delete the woman who’d held Jack down, the people that drew Flat’s blood, and the doomed prisoners that brought their food. 

The staff is large, and the facility is larger. Jack’s cell and Watcher’s office are to the right. 

9664 turns left. 

Every step takes them into new territory. They bypass countless doors that stay closed. It would be a waste, they reason, to allow guards to capture or eliminate potential allies. Better to dispose of the opposition first. But how many are there? How long will this take? The periodic crash and boom of their ‘ally’ shakes the building. She will take care of some of the men and women, but the bulk of the job is on their shoulders. 

The weight of it drags their feet. 

Crowd after crowd dissolves into air before them. They wonder where Watcher’s toy soldier is hiding, or if he  _ is  _ hiding. He does not seem the type. They use the memory of bullets to speed their steps. Sigma. If there is one thing that could make this job more bearable, it is him. 

Watcher would mourn him of course. And maybe that is all that they can do to hurt them, but it may just be enough. Things like them should not make those sorts of connections. 

Though it had hardly stopped either of them. 

At some point, 9664 realizes that the opposition has dwindled to a trickle by now. They imagine that  _ she _ must be keeping most of them busy; not even a small army would be enough to deal with something like her. They will have to start freeing the anomalies soon if they want to continue the plan. After that, there will be no going back. The distortions will roll out over the world, eating away at its land and people. 

9664 stops in front of a numbered plate. It accompanies an enormous door more suited for vehicles than people. They do not know what is behind it, but they suppose it is time to find out. 

Footsteps interrupt their thoughts, and they can’t parse the relief from the dismay. The rhythmic tap is not that of combat boots or soldiers marching. They recognize it as the sound of someone running in shoes that were never intended for the purpose. It suggests research staff or even admin, but neither group would reasonably run towards danger instead of away from it. (Not that there would be anywhere to run in a few sparse minutes.) 

Rather than eliminate every living thing in the hallway, they wait. The raspy pant of the exhausted strikes their ear before their visitor comes into view. Something like unease scrapes their spine. They draw their focus into a point in preparation, but it all shatters when Dr. Velvet rounds the corner, red in the face from running. 

His hair is a mess, and his suit is rumpled and dusted in powdered concrete. He must have gotten a little too close to the commotion outside. 

That scratch on their spine cuts deeper. 

Flat’s voice rings louder, not with words, but pure surprise. It is all they can do to push it down. They are stuck in place again, all the momentum they’d built cooling and cementing their bare feet to the floor. 

Dr. Waver’s eyes are wild. They dart around, skipping over 9664 on several passes before landing and melting into stark relief. “Flat,” he rasps, and they flinch. He seems to take their guilt as fear, and he rushes towards them though his legs shake from the exertion. He reaches them, panting and huffing, but he does not stop there. An arm slings over their shoulder, then another, and then the weight of Waver’s torso falls against their head. 

It is not so much a hug as it is a tired man leaning on an abomination, but it is warm all the same. 

“You’re okay. Thank god. You’re alive.” 

The words come shattered through their shock, and they have to piece them back together. Those words of concern are not what they were expecting, nor were they intended from them, but the happiness bubbling up through their gloom is not just Flat’s. 

“I,” 

Then Waver whips away and they are stumbling under their own weight. “You  _ idiot! _ Why the hell did you leave your room?” 

They frown and raise their voice a little louder. “I,” 

“I don’t want to hear it!” Waver’s hand closes around their wrist. It is still shaking from the exertion of his earlier run, and slick with sweat. 9664 would not have to employ even a fraction of their power to slip away- Flat’s strength would be enough. But they cannot draw away. “I’ve been looking all over the whole damn building for you! There’s some giant monster trying to tear the building down. Its damn tail nearly took me out!” And then, with more anger than he’d expressed yet, “I thought you were  _ dead! _ ” 

His concern is absurd. He has seen them rise from acid unscathed. Even if  _ she _ could injure them, they would recover in seconds. They stare up at the prisoner turned researcher with an expression that they themselves don’t understand. Why aren’t they pulling away? It’s just another action that has no real merit to it and that fact only leaves them feeling far more confused; far more hesitant. 

It’s that elongated silence that tells Waver off, and his relief melts away only ever so slightly as he realizes just  _ who _ he’s really talking to. “Where’s Flat?” His voice, though still breathless, is now cautious, barely disguising the panic that is building in the man.

There is no good answer, but 9664 wants to try. Waver deserves that much. Their voice is hoarse when they raise their hand to their temple. “Right here.” 

“Bring him out.” 

“I can’t.” 

Waver’s voice takes on an edge of violent desperation, fear, anger, and acceptance wrapped into one incomprehensible emotion. “Fine.  _ Fine.  _ This is fine. It’s better this way. At least nothing’s going to be able to hurt you like this.” 

The building shakes, and a scatter of plaster rains down from the ceiling. The emergency lights flicker and dim. 

Waver’s hand is on 9664’s before they can react. It is sweaty and shaking, but its grip is firm, and Waver has a look in his eyes like he intends to outrun the devil. As if 9664 isn’t a devil themself. 

They let Waver lead them back the way they’d come, stepping through empty spaces where squadrons once existed with Waver none the wiser. Waver is not much aware of anything, it seems, other than the sound of his own voice. 9664 is hyper-aware of the inexplicable warmth of his hand in theirs. 

“Of course,” Waver grumbles. “Of course, he had  _ you.  _ He didn’t need me at all! What the hell was I thinking?” On and on, the same thought shrieking out in different words. 

“Stupid,” Waver grunts. “Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid. _ ” 

As if he hasn’t tipped the world upside down.

\--

By the time they return to 9664’s containment chamber, some of the color has returned to Waver’s face. Every time the building shakes he jolts as if he’s been shot, but he never once lets 9664 out of his sight. 

The airlock doors are still missing from the entrance, leaving a gaping hole in the side of the hallway. Waver takes one look, sighs the air from his lungs, and marches inside. He hooks his hands under the bedframe and his muscles go taught as he strains to lift it. 

9664 watches, tethered between two doors that are no longer there. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?” Waver grunts. Curses. “The damn doors are gone. It’s not like a bed’s going to stop that monster outside, but it’s a hell of a lot better than an open invitation! Now are you going to help or not?” He leaves the bed to shake the stiffness from his arms, and then dives back in. “Not that you need the protection. But  _ I _ am a fragile, tiny human. If that thing gets in here, I’m the first one that’s going to die. Mark my words.” 

9664 steps inside the room, leaving new doors behind them. 

For the first time since his appearance, Waver is not visibly shaking. Still, he moves to the corner of the room and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He droops in relief through the ritual of lighting the cigarette and trapping it between his lips, but he removes it before he inhales, no doubt in consideration of his so-called host. 

9664 stares. 

“They took all that trouble making sure people can’t get out, and they just let that thing waltz in,” Waver says. He mimes exhaling smoke rings while his cigarette smoulders between his fingertips. “They must’ve thrown all the guards at that thing by now. I didn’t see a single one on my way here.” His eyes slip to 9664, and for a moment they are sure that he knows. It should not affect them the way it does, with their tongue feeling too thick in their mouth, and their stomach full of sand. They have never felt anything like it before. Perhaps they’ve spent too much time in this body. 

Rather than pursue the topic, Waver collapses against the wall and crushed the end of his cigarette between his fingertips. “That Watcher was full of hot air. Some ‘Watcher’ they are if they didn’t see this coming.” 

9664 is no longer sure whether Waver is speaking honestly, or only trying to spare their feelings. They know he is not a fool, and that he must be suspicious that they’d left their room after so many months spent cooperating. Every person they meet sets them on shakier ground, until they feel like they no longer know where they stand. 

The power thrums on, blinding eyes now accustomed to the dim glow of the emergency lighting. 

Waver curses, dropping his cigarette on the concrete floor. 

The P.A. system hums static. “Attention. All staff- The anomaly has been subdued. All available containment specialists, Class B and above are to report to the loading docks. Class C containment specialists, confirm containment status of your assigned cases. I repeat. The anomaly has been subdued,” 

Whatever else comes from the intercoms, 9664 does not register it. Their world has become little more than the space between themselves and Dr. Velvet, eyes as dark as the universe itself focused on the man’s hunched over form. Silence reigns over the two of them, and they feel like they may end up crushed under the weight of it. 

Though that is not the only thing weighing down on their shoulders. That indescribable emotion, so oppressive and painful, only grew in size and strength as they realize that the plan has failed. Mesala’s great plan, their  _ raison d’etre, _ has become nothing more than ashes...and it is all because of them. 

Why did they doubt? They were never supposed to have any other reason to be aside from bringing Mesala’s plans to fruition. They were not created to  _ think _ . Only to  _ do. _

“What’s wrong?” Perhaps they have been staring at Dr. Waver for too long. Now the man is looking back at them, green eyes narrowed. They want to say it’s out of suspicion, but it doesn’t feel like such. The fact does not make 9664 any better. If anything, it makes them feel even worse than before. 

It feels like they might drown. Like they’ve lost their footing and have been falling down since then. While Waver’s gaze can only be described as the exact opposite of Mesala’s opposite, 9664 feels themselves give into it in a similar fashion. “I was the one that deleted the soldiers.” 

Dr. Waver does not appear to be surprised in the least. His expression sours considerably, but does not take it out on 9664--there’s no crying over spilled milk at this point. He sighs, breaking his gaze from the inhuman host that looked more and more like a lost child rather than an unfeeling killing machine. 

“You think I didn’t know that?” He clicks his tongue, sighing. “Idiot.” 

“...” 

Waver rolls his eyes, pulling another cigarette out. This one, he does not light. “The real question is  _ why? _ You could have broken out at any time if you’ve always been able to make the doors disappear. And if this had been  _ your _ plan, then you wouldn’t have been dawdling around in the hallways, so clearly this is someone else’s plan. Someone else is using y--”

“Please stop.” Their voice is hoarse. It’s tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion. They want Flat to return, but it’s silent. “I told you to not involve yourself in this. So  _ stop. _ ” 

Waver scoffs. “Yeah, well, I wish I could stop. I wish I could go back to London and forget all about the Foundation and its bullshit, but I can’t. I’m a researcher, and both you  _ and _ Flat are under my supervision, whether you like it or not. So if you’d like to tell me  _ why, _ it would be a  _ big _ help.” 

They do not like it. They do not want his concern or his care or his  _ anything _ . They want nothing more than to go back into the farthest corner of their mind, but that is not possible anymore. “I can’t say it.” 9664 mutters, looking away. 

“Fine.” Waver picks himself up from the floor with a frown, dusting off his pants. “But that does not mean that I won’t figure it out--eventually it will come to light and that is something that even you can’t stop.” For a moment he pauses, and 9664 imagines that he will turn around and leave. 

Instead, he sets a firm hand on their shoulder, that same strange, warm gaze on him as before. In that moment, they realize that it’s a look of  _ concern _ \--something Mesala never bothered to have. “Thank you, however.” His voice is earnest, full of emotions that lay right underneath the surface. “Thank you for not going through with it.” 

9664 is speechless. They stare at Waver’s back as he walks away, dumbfounded. Even once the door closes, they cannot will themselves to look away from the spot where Waver stood. 

They couldn’t go through with it. 

Why? 

What had changed? 

When had they become defective? 

Under the weight of these thoughts, 9664 feels their knees give way and they collapse onto the cold, unfeeling tile floor. It’s then when they find themselves able to put a name to that painful emotion that threatens to overwhelm their entire being. 

Guilt. 

They felt  _ guilty _ . 

Guilty for not being able to fulfill Mesala’s dream. For being nothing more than a defective creation in the end. 

And yet, when they heard a soft whisper in their head, like the gentle hiss of a snake, they did not feel any better. 

_ ‘This is not the end’ _ it said.  _ ‘This is only the beginning.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! so sorry for the wait. life has been busy with the general (gestures at everything) but also some personal things such as moving to a new place and work. i hope that you enjoyed this chapter! follow me at jibetatravel @ twitter if you are interested in me crying over flat escardos way too much.


	19. A little elsewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attack on the Foundation leaves everyone with a great deal to consider.

The battlefield is mud and blood and concrete, growing in depth with every sweep of the monster’s tail. The taste of iron whets Gilgamesh’s appetite for more. He stands firm on the foundation of the men and women who’ve fallen under his command to bring the thing to its knees. 

One of his axes is embedded deep in the joint of the monster’s leg. He is not the one that put it there. Watcher’s boy, Sigma, retains a residue of magic where his hands gripped its handle, where he lies shattered on the ground, and his sacrifice is not in vain. The monster shrieks in pain, limping and lashing out at the standing soldiers who have taken Sigma’s cue and picked up scattered weapons from Gilgamesh’s treasury. They are making dents in its armor, but it will not be enough. 

Gilgamesh flicks his wrist, rattling the chain that frames his arm. “Well? What do you think?” 

_ We may need a little more help. _

His mouth twists in resigned displeasure. He lifts his arm, glaring down the dangling blade at its end. It lifts, pointing to the crushed remains of the loading bay.

A girl stands in the rubble, framed by crumbling concrete walls. Her cloak whips about in the wind, catching against her as she lifts the birdcage she keeps at her hip. 

The wicked grin returns to Gilgamesh’s mouth. “I suppose we can work with that. I will leave the coordination to you.” 

Chains explode in a rush of gold and silver, orbiting Gilgamesh like Saturn’s rings. He wraps his hand around the links and swings. 

The mass that doubles as the monster’s head and chest turns from the diminishing team of soldiers. Its tail slaps down, tremors shake the ground, and its claws dig deep into the flattened earth. 

_ I have explained the plan to her spear. You are free to move whenever you like. Preferably before that little girl kills us all. _

“Little girl? Do you mean Gray or that monster?” 

_ Gray is not so little. _

In another impact that shakes the earth, the thing leaps, blocking the sun from the sky. 

_ It seems that she has decided we are the biggest threat, _ the chains observe. 

Gilgamesh whips his arm back, and the chains arc out in hundreds of points, each tipped with a spearhead. Pieces of the beast’s armor shattered from their force. Strands split and twist, laying roots into the ground. The beast shrieks, limbs and tail thrashing, but every move wraps the chain tighter. The metal scrapes but does not snap. 

_ Add! _

Wind cuts past Gilgamesh’s face, whipping up dust devils in its rush. 

The SCP Foundation contains a wide variety of anomalies, and anyone could be excused for believing that everything is a danger to humanity. It contains countless items capable of eradicating all life on the planet. 

The little box Gray guards is not one of those, though it is just as powerful. Her hood flies from her head as she lifts Add into the air. It fractures and rearranges, releasing specks of light that swell into a spiral reaching well beyond the clouds. 

_ Pseudo-personality halt. Mana accumulation stage, above normal parameters. Second stage, limited release start. _

The Chains of Heaven bite into Gilgamesh’s arm when the beast thrashes, sinking into the bruises of hundreds of battles. He hardly notices, face turned up to the light. 

“Holy Lance, release!  **RHONGOMYNIAD!** ”

Like a sword of flame, Gray brings her hand down and the light coils around her wrist. It is a lance, not a spear, and it thrusts out with the shift of her weight. It swallows the beast, the chains, and everything in a wall of platinum that is so pure it drowns the senses. 

The light ebbs like soft sunset, but its remnants remain in Gilgamesh’s eyes in the form of a soft blue corona that filters the world. The monster is a statue, tied to the ground with a web of metal. He brushes the dust from his clothes and assesses the damage. Three of his troops are more gore than body. It is more than he would have liked, but less than he’d feared. His new recruit, Richard, is nursing a broken sword with attention he does not offer his broken leg. Two layers of hallway are shattered open, and Gray is propped against the remains, coaxing her anomaly back into its cage. 

Watcher’s charge is broken but breathing, though Gilgamesh suspects he won’t be for long. 

“Enkidu. I will have to ask you to assist the containment team with that thing’s transport.” 

_ Understood. _

He raises his voice to the others still standing. “Take the injured to the medical bay. I will handle the rest.” 

A ragged cheer rises from the scattered remains. 

_ Make sure to thank Gray later. If she hadn’t come, you might have had to use Ea. As strong as she is, she might have wiped the entire facility from the map. The O5s would have been furious. _

Gilgamesh rolls his eyes and looks to the loading bay. There is nothing but an empty space where Gray had stood. Strange. She has never left so soon before. He does not bother considering it much longer. There are other, more important matters to attend to. 

The first noncombatants start trickling from the building, drawn by the return of the electricity. One of his team has Richard’s arm slung over her shoulder, and two more have Sigma on a makeshift stretcher. It will take them some time to recover from this. 

\--

Humans are shockingly easy to trick if you know the way they work. 

As Jack dons a familiar face, they wonder when they started thinking of humans as something separate from themself. Maybe it was when they met Flat, or long before or after. 

It doesn’t particularly matter in the end. Not when it seems like the world is ending. Concrete groans under the pressure of whatever is stomping around. While they don’t know what it is or why it’s here, they know that this entire place is in danger. And if that’s the case—

Flat is in danger. 

Rationally they know that there is nothing they could do to protect him that he could not do himself, but there is nothing rational about the way their heart thuds in their chest. There is nothing rational about how the sight of Flat’s scattered brains have haunted their dreams for their entire tenure at the Foundation, or how it screams across their waking thoughts even now. 

They need to see him. They need to know that he’s safe. 

Dr. Velvet’s face is the perfect trap. He has gained a reputation for both eccentric behavior and exceptional competence, and while he is not Jack’s supervising researcher, he spends more time in their cell than Dr. Willis herself. 

They take the extra precaution of creating a double with their usual face and setting it to lay in their bed before diving into Dr. Velvet’s memories. That is the strength of their transformation. It is no mere illusion, nor does it stop after the first few layers of skin. It digs deep into their body and rewires the bits of their brain that accommodate memory. It is one more piece of their anomaly they’ve managed to hide from the Foundation, and it is all they can think of. 

Jack lets themself sink deeper. 

They raise their fist and pound it against the door. “Hey! Let me out!” 

The voice over the intercom is as distracted as they’d hoped, presumably preoccupied by whatever killed the lights. It sounds as skeptical as they’d expected. “Dr. Velvet? I don’t remember you entering 9047’s containment chamber.” 

“These things have manual locks on the outside in case of an emergency,” Jack shoots back. Waver’s voice has a shake to it that carries authority nonetheless. It is a quality that Jack is grateful for because the man on the other side of the mic clears his throat. Jack counts the seconds ticking by. They’ve just reached twenty-two when the locks click. 

“Be careful out there. Coms are down- Only the local connections are up and running. Got no idea how the rest of the place is looking. You should go hole up in your office until it blows over.” 

“Thank you,” Jack says with all sincerity. 

They leave their cell.

\--

Dr. Velvet drips off Jack’s skin like water, and their composure goes with him. Their teeth are raw from grinding, and the pain fuels them. 

Flat. 

Flat. 

Flat.

Every crunch of concrete and aborted scream is another shot of adrenaline. They are itching, they are starving, and they are scared for another and not themself. The first employee they encounter learns this the hard way. 

Jack does not have the opportunity to linger and enjoy their kill, but they feel no need to. It is the first time they have killed for purpose rather than relief. The power flickers back on, reflecting off the puddle of blood. They start running. 

The bodies that they leave behind cannot be described as human. 

They look more like pieces of meat, torn apart by something that was not human itself. Perhaps a bear or a pack of wolves.

But this is a Foundation site. There are no wolves or bears to speak of. And while the SCP Foundation could be called a storehouse for the paranormal and the outright bizarre, this site in particular holds nothing of the sort. As far as their files go, there is nothing stored here that could have caused that type of damage, and the one thing that  _ can  _ is  _ above _ ground. 

Because of this, only one possibility will cross the minds of those that discover the bodies.

_ A demon. _

_A demon did this._ _Only a demon could do this._

In the moment, Jack is that demon. They tear through anyone in their way until it is impossible to tell which limbs match which corpse. They’ve never needed knives to kill; they only need to relinquish their humanity, just as Flat had for them. 

The strained cries of survivors do not reach their ears. They are already gone. 

The muscles of their legs bunch and twist to accommodate their pace. The dark claws of their feet curl protrude from the false leather of Dr. Velvet’s shoes. They score lines through the flooring, made darker by shadow when the power returns. Excess light is not a barrier to Jack’s march. 

They are close. 

Flat feels like static, the charge before a thunderstorm crawling under their skin. Lightning and hail batter their nerves the closer they get, though it does nothing to discourage them. 

The metal door labeled 9664 feels fresh. There are none of the scratches or stains it had the last time they’d seen it. The discrepancy is nothing more nor less than any of the small things they’ve experienced in their time with Flat, so they raise their claws to the metal to rend it open. 

“Flat!” 

The lightest pressure swings the door open, as if it was never locked to begin with. Jack pauses, the red fog covering their vision dispersing under a wind of unease, but it rushes back just as fast. They step through the doorway. The second door opens as the one behind them swings shut. The lock does not click. They move in.

Relief drenches them when they spot Flat. He sits on the bed, shoulders hunched in. His eyes are a black hole, and he is not Flat. 

But they are. They  _ are  _ Flat: A frightening part of him, but a part of him all the same. Jack is reeled in until they are not sure whether their feet are touching the floor. 

9664 turns towards them. Staring. 

Jack stares back. 

“Jack,” they state as if they are sure, though Jack does not know how they could be. 

Jack’s teeth bulge out of their mouth, and the stringy remains of their disguise’s hair parts around keratin horns. They are sure that, in all their time before or after Flat, they have never looked more frightening. 

“What are you doing here?” 

9664’s awe is the ignition. Relief, surprise, and everything else explodes out. Jack locks their arms around 9664’s shoulders, holding tight like they fear they will be ripped away. 

The reaction is immediate. Something drains out of 9664, or perhaps it drains in. A rough puff of air pushes Jack’s hair- an indication of surprise. And then Flat returns the gesture, clinging to Jack with the same desperation. It hurts. Flat’s bony arms dig into their sides under the mild protection of their ribs, and they are sure that they are bruising him in return, but neither of them shows any indication of stopping. 

“I was worried,” Jack says, though their words are muffled by Flat’s shoulder. “Everything went dark, and there were alarms everywhere. I thought you were in danger.” 

“You’d be in danger then too, Jack,” Flat reminds them. He sounds concerned and confused, like he does not know what Jack is talking about, and that ignorance is comforting. 

They ruffle his hair into a tangled mess and loosen their grip. “Yeah, yeah. Guess I was worried for nothing. Still, I’m glad I was able to make it over here.” 

“How did you, anyway?” 

Jack’s heart plummets. 

Shit. 

“Dr. Velvet just left here, so it probably wasn’t him.” Flat is ticking off his fingers like he is solving a puzzle, counting down possible explanations for Jack’s presence. “And Watcher’s not here either. Am I missing someone?” 

He is not. Jack’s supervisor, Dr. Willis, was not the type to organize visits on her own time, much less during a containment breach. There is no plausible deniability here, though Jack is sure that Flat will accept any lie they concoct. 

Lying is very tempting. 

As many as they are sure 9664 has killed, they do not relish in the idea of Flat knowing what they’ve done. It is strange. He has known that they were a killer from the beginning, but it feels different now. They wonder if it is a matter of motives. What would Flat think, knowing they’d killed, not for themself, but for him? 

Would he still-

“Well if it ain’t Jack! Glad to see that you made it here without much trouble.” 

Jack goes stiff at approximately the same time that Flat exclaims “Watcher!” in obvious surprise. 

Watcher it is. Jack cannot feel the hand on their shoulder, but they can see the way Flat’s eyes dart to it, going dark and darker in milliseconds. Jack steels their body, creating an ineffectual wall between their friend and something intangible. 

“Now, now. I’m not gonna hurt you or anything. Just wanted to have a little chat with Flat here if you don’t mind.” 

Today’s Watcher is a grizzled old man who has seen many, many better days. He takes a step back to accommodate Jack when they turn to face him and offer a smile just an inch too wide. “You’re a good friend. Flat here’s lucky. But I’m gonna have to cut your visit short. Dr. Willis’s throwin’ a fit. Guess we shoulda given her a heads-up you’d be gone.” 

Jack looks back to Flat, but he is not Flat any longer. 9664 nods, giving them permission to leave. Jack looks past the gesture though and concentrates on their expression. They have only recently started looking closely at 9664 and it was, ironically, Watcher that prompted them to do so. 9664’s arms dangle at their sides, and their eyes do not seem focused on anything in particular. They are shifting their weight. It is subtle- so much so that Jack doubts they would have noticed if they were not looking. 9664 looks lost. 

Jack is already in trouble. They can’t imagine things getting much worse, so they move to Flat’s bed and sit down. They gesture for Watcher to continue. 

The barest hint of irritation crosses Watcher’s face, but they wipe it away in favor of a shark toothed grin. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Guess it couldn’t hurt. Why don’t you have a seat too, boy?” 

9664 remained standing. 

Watcher laughs too loud for comfort and drops his weight to the floor. “Fine. But don’t you complain when your legs get tired. Might be here for a while.” 

9664’s eyes dart from Jack to Watcher, and Jack can’t help but feel that they are modulating their tone a little when they snap, “What are you doing here?” They are the same words they’d greeted Jack with mere minutes ago, but they sound completely different: They sound like a threat. 

Watcher’s beard falls with his smile, and 9664’s malice falters. “I’m sure it’s been a rough kinda day for you, but I’ve got a favor to ask.” 

“And why should I do you a favor?” 

Jack digs the points of their nails into the bedspread and holds their breath.

If Watcher has an answer, it is not a solid one. He rubs at his beard and adjusts his posture so his wooden leg grazes the ground. “Sigma is dying,” he says like it is the weather. “I’d wager in the next few hours. Shame, wouldn’t you say?” 

9664’s eyes flick to Jack and back. 

Watcher fishes a pipe from his canvas coat and tips it between his lips in a gesture that makes them flinch. He grins. “I imagine Dr. Velvet would agree.” 

“I don’t see how this is supposed to convince me.” 

“Would you like a slideshow?” Watcher asks. His smile is as dry as the ground he sits on. “Or need I remind you that we’ve both made some questionable choices?”

Jack shifts. The feeling that they are intruding grows despite, or perhaps because of Watcher’s friendly nod in their direction. The way 9664 hurries to block their view of Watcher with their narrow shoulders is no comfort at all. 

“If you want me to help, you need to do something for me.” 

“S’long as it’s something I can do.” 

“I want protection.” 

Jack sucks in a breath loud enough that 9664 looks back. There is something wild in their eyes that looks a little too much like fear, and Jack does not like seeing it there. They reach out and grab their hand, but 9664 tenses more. The air prickles in a way that Jack is starting to recognize. When they try to pull away, 9664 squeezes back and holds them there. 

“That,” Watcher says, “I can do.” He stands in a series of cracking joints. “We’ll deal with keeping you and Jack safe. Dr. Velvet too if that’s what you want. But you’ve gotta keep your end of the bargain. Can you open the door? Like I said, my assistant ain’t here.” 

9664’s galaxy eyes fix on Jack’s one more time before they spit out one word of assent. 

The doors swing open. 

“C’mon then,” Watcher calls. “We ain’t got time to linger.” 

\--

They leave Jack in the shaking hands of Dr. Willis. She thanks Watcher with a desperation 9664 has never seen before as he explains that their door had malfunctioned and they’d gotten a little lost. It was hardly her fault. There was no need for concern. The bodies? Ah, yes. The bodies. He would check the surveillance footage later. She was looking awfully pale. Had she been close to the incident? Probably best to get some rest. 

Watcher tosses 9664 a gap-toothed grin as Dr. Willis stumbles off to the break room. This too is a form of protection. They move on. 

The people in the hallways do not stop and stare or even mutter. There is a frantic energy about them that blinds them to all but their duties. The few that take notice of a loose SCP strolling through the halls take one look at Watcher and return to their frantic duties. 

9664 has never been to this wing of the facility, and rightly so. There are no containment chambers, and all of the offices have letters like “M.D.” and “Psy.D.” in the place of ranks. The buzz of panic is louder here, and becomes louder with every step they take. It has been nearly a year since 9664 was last around so many people, and their skin feels too small on their body. They want this over. Now. 

Watcher seems to sense their discomfort. They approach a swinging set of metal doors that stutter sounds on their hinges. “In and out,” he says. “Once you’re done you can head straight back. We’ll hash out the details once things settle.” 

His conscientiousness is the opposite of comfort, and 9664 cannot wait to be rid of it. They nod. 

The hospital wing is cut in militant rectangles, with grim-faced nurses snapping from bed to bed. The noises are their words. They speak cold and clinical and there is not an inch of fear in their voices while they wrap wounds and set limbs. They largely ignore the pile of body bags stacked like tinder in the far corner. 

Watcher weaves through the crowd with the ease of someone intangible. Shoulders, heads, and legs pass through him on their way from one blunt-force victim to the next. 

Machines beep and mix until their sounds are meaningless noise. 

A man wraps gauze around a woman raked over with claw wounds in the corner. 

The last bed on the left is isolated from the rest by a curtain. No nurses enter it. None leave either. Watcher gestures for them to follow as he steps right through it. 

If Watcher had not mentioned Sigma by name, 9664 might not have recognized him. 

Splints supplement the bandages that hold his three of his four limbs straight, giving the impression of molds rather than supports. A tube that 9664 suspects helps him breathe is shoved through the center of his throat. The reason they avoided his mouth is immediately apparent. Whatever force hit him had decimated his jaw. Sunken gauze hides the worst of the wound, but there is a noticeable gap where flesh and bone should be. 

9664 has seen no shortage of carnage during Flat’s time with Jack. They have never seen something quite like this. They have no idea how he is still alive. 

“Like I said,” Watcher says, sounding far too calm, “She really did a number on him. I’ve been pulling the strings I’ve got to get him what he needs, but he’s gonna croak pretty soon.” 

“Are you trying to guilt me?” 9664 asks. They close their eyes, but they can tell Watcher is looming behind them. “That won’t work. You sent him to fight her for one of your ‘trials’, didn’t you?” 

“And he did a damn good job of it,” Watcher agreed. “Really lives up to expectations. If you’re that worried about him, you could always take his place.”

9664 knows this: Watcher would welcome them with open arms if they said the word.They shut him out and focus on the task at hand. They need to fix Sigma, and return him back to how he was. But what had he looked like then? What kind of person was he? All Flat can recall is a puppet with a rifle tucked into corners.

There is a tickle at the back of their brain that they recognize as Watcher’s influence. He offers scenes of a boy growing up on a battlefield, holding a gun in place of a toy. Sigma running, Sigma killing, Sigma surviving on the last crumbs of stale rations he’s been saving for months. Sigma sitting with Dr. Velvet and a girl they don’t recognize, with something that might be misconstrued as a smile. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” 9664 says, “But he might be better off with you than otherwise.” 

“Kind of you to say.” 

“I’m not complimenting you.” 

Reality rocks.

9664 opens their eyes. 

Sigma’s breathing is soft and steady. The trach tube and bandages are gone, as are the splints. It is the first time that 9664 has used their powers this way. It feels… strange. Nice. They take a moment to bask in the warmth, but are interrupted by the sound of Watcher’s whistle. 

“Nice job! Looks good as new. Think I can trouble you for the rest of the poor saps in this place?” 

Air rushes to fill the space previously occupied by 9664. 

Watcher raises his eyebrows and huffs out a laugh. “Stubborn kid. Sigma, I need to set up a meeting with Dr. Velvet tomorrow. Could you,” He starts and glances down at the bed where Sigma is still sleeping. Of course. He rolls his neck and starts the long walk back to his office. 

Just a little longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read the fight from Sigma's perspective, check out Dinner and a Movie- a spin-off fic in this same series!
> 
> We're getting towards the end of this arc! I think there's only one chapter left. One chapter is plenty of time to shed some light on what the hell is going on, right? Sure! 
> 
> Anyway, work things are kicking both of our butts, so I'm not sure how long it'll take to get the next chapter out. Thank y'all for your patience!


	20. Preparations for the second round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the dust has settled, both sides have to regroup. The fight may be over, but the battle is only just beginning.

Watcher’s collections of paintings, photographs, and figurines form a solemn sentry above the meeting. The room is cramped. Gray had tried to book a conference room at Watcher’s request, but several were destroyed in the attack, and the others were booked by the people trying to figure out how the hell to pick up the pieces. A week and a half was hardly enough. 

Watcher had asked Gray to help him push his desk up against the wall to make room, and Sigma and Waver had fetched several additional chairs. Through their efforts combined, they’d managed to squeeze everyone in. 

Watcher sits perched on his desk, sharing the same space as his computer monitor. 

Sigma stands vigil by the window, leaning to the left to avoid cracking his head on one of the shelves bolted to the wall. 

Waver and Jack shift in their chairs, and 9664 has wedged themself in the furthest corner, looking both alert and exhausted. 

“So Flat, how are you feeling?” Watcher asks. He is wearing those damnable feathers again and it makes Waver’s stomach churn whenever they dip through the ceiling. He turns away, both to hear the answer and avoid the sight. 9664’s fever has evaporated, but so has Flat’s presence. They spend most of their days laying on their side, staring holes in the wall. 

9664 hikes their chin up, pressing further back into the wall. “Fine.” 

“I’m going to need you to be honest with me if this is going to work.” 

When no answer comes, Jack clears their throat. Their muscles are tense. They have not been around so many people for such a long time since the day they were captured, and it grates at their nerves. The itch, so thoroughly scratched just a week ago, rises with the proximity of so many warm bodies. “What is ‘this?’ Why am I here?” 

“I asked,” 9664 says, sharp and short. 

“And you asked for me too?” Waver grits out. 

“No.” 

“That was me.” Watcher kicks out his feet to rest on the chair 9664’d refused and smiles. “I thought you’d benefit from being here. This is going to involve you one way or another, so you have a right to know.” 

“No it is _not_ ,” 9664 says through gritted teeth. “There’s no reason for him to be involved in any of this.” 

“Oh, but there is!” 

Waver is standing now, fists clenched at his side. “Would you two _stop?_ ” 9664 stills, eyes wide. Watcher smiles. “I think that I can decide if I am involved or not. But you’re both being so damn cryptic that I’ve got no idea what’s going on. Now would one of you two explain already?” 

“Sounds pretty reasonable. We’ve kept you in the dark for a pretty long time now, but there is one other person I’d like to invite to this meeting. Flat, would you mind bringing the other one out?” 

Once Waver would have trembled at the static that followed, but now he greets it with a sense of impatience. Jack flinches beside him. He places his hand on their forearm. 

Waver has seen 9664 and Flat change places numerous times and knows what to expect. Their shoulders slump and their jaw goes slack for the moment it takes them to form Flat’s smile. This is not like that. 

9664 looks like double exposure, an imperfect copy superimposed over their face. 

“ _Flat?_ ” Jack exclaims at the same moment Waver yells “9664?” 

“Yeah?” they reply in two very different but equally familiar tones of voice. 

Jack’s jaw drops. Waver clutches his head. Watcher smirks and sweeps his hand out to the room. “Welcome, Flat Escardos. We’ve been waiting for you.” 

The apparition breaks away from 9664 and jumps through the little space in the room. “Jack! Dr. Velvet! You’re here! And, um,” 

“Sigma,” Sigma supplies. 

“Watcher,” Watcher announces. “We’ve met, but I’m not sure how much you remember. Not sure if you’ve met the person behind you either.” 

Flat spins on his heel, and Waver holds his breath when his eyes meet 9664’s. 

Eyes the color of the ocean’s depths meet those of a clear sky for the first time—

“Why wouldn’t I know them?”

Flat’s question leaves the room in a silence that is as tense as a taut string. Even Watcher’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, as he continues to watch the scene unfold before everyone’s eyes. 

His gaze shifts to the other room members, and Flat’s own apprehension growing with every second of silence. After 30 seconds, he can’t take it anymore. “What? You thought I wouldn’t notice how you guys were always talking about bringing the “other one” out?” 

“Then why didn’t you say anything?!” Waver snaps.

This time, 9664 and Flat answer in unison. “You didn’t ask.” Their voices overlap and echo, but the dissonance created by their different tones gives Waver and the others a feeling of…. _wrongness._

And yet it is Waver that responds, “Would you have even told me if I asked?” 

“No.” 

Waver rounds on 9664, hackles raised. “And why the hell not? What is the point of keeping something like this secret?” 

“You could have at least told me,” Jack adds. 

9664 leans back against the wall and looks to Flat’s apparition. “He was the one that wanted to keep it secret.” Flat’s face goes red and he looks down to hide it. “He did not want either of you to get too involved or know too much. He may not know the details, but he knows this is dangerous.” 

“So what are the de-” 

Watcher’s hands make no sound as they clap together, but his voice cuts through the tension. “Alright, everyone! Calm down. Sounds like right now is the perfect time to straighten everything out. Let’s start with the basics. Flat Escardos is what we at the Foundation like to refer to as a ‘reality bender.’” 

Flat and Jack make soft noises of surprise, but Waver is hardly impressed. He has heard and read the term more times than he can possibly count. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Watcher holds out a finger to silence him. 

“But he, well, _they_ are not just any reality bender. You could say that they are an extension of reality itself. It isn’t that they twist reality: It’s more that they define it. They’re as much a part of this universe as, say, the laws of physics.” 

The room is silent, but Waver is already pinching his nose in frustration, looking like he’s mere seconds from bursting out in anger again. But since it does not happen, Watcher continues. “Now, _usually,_ beings like these aren’t supposed to have personalities. They are as present as the laws of physics and just as impersonal as them. Something like 9664’s situation is a rare sight to watch...I believe it’s something that has only happened once before.”

And, at that point, Waver looks up. It’s as if a switch had been turned on in his brain, but the realization was only making his expression far more sour than before. 

“Let me guess. The other ‘situation’ you’re referring to is yours. Am I correct, Watcher?” 

The cheshire grin on Watcher’s grin does nothing to abate the researcher’s irritation. “Yes, Dr. Velvet. Your deductions are always so on point-- are you sure you aren’t a clairvoyant?” Absolute silence. From the corner of the room, the sound of 9664 clicking their tongue can be heard, but Watcher continues to smile. “Nevertheless, you are correct. I was created with the sole purpose of _observing_ reality. If you’d like to put it in terms that are easier to understand, you could say that I am the eyes of the universe, while 9664 is one of the hands.”

“Even if you put it that way, you two don’t seem very similar.” 

“Jack’s right,” Flat agrees, eyebrows knit. “I don’t look like that at all.” 

9664 huffs a laugh. 

“I wasn’t talking about looks,” Jack breaks in. “For all we know they have a face that looks just like you.” 

Flat cocks his head, rolling the concept across his mind. He looks as if he doubts it, though Jack does not know why he would, Watcher’s myriad appearances considered. They look to Waver, who is looking from Flat to 9664 to Watcher with the same thoughtful scowl. 

“So then do Flat and 9664 have a body when you do not because of their reality bending capabilities, or is there another reason?” 

“You have a knack for asking the right questions,” Watcher laughs. “Or perhaps the wrong ones. You’re a magnet for trouble, though I can’t say that doesn’t work to my advantage. We manifested at very different times and for very different reasons.” He gestures for 9664. “This is more your story to tell than mine. Besides, it’s closely tied to the reason we asked you all to be here.” 

“Which was?” Jack prompts. 

“I need protection,” 9664 grits out between clenched teeth. 

“ _Protection?_ ” Waver asks. His voice cracks. “ _Us?_ Protect _you?_ ” He scans the room. “Watcher might as well be Casper the Friendly Ghost. Sigma has,” he does a double-take, “A _crossbow?_ A Crossbow. A _fucking_ crossbow.” Sigma nods. “Jack, who is admittedly terrifying,” Jack shrugs in acknowledgement, “And me.” He does not elaborate further. “What could we possibly do to protect the most powerful reality bender in, I don’t know, reality?” 

Watcher’s eyes are crinkled with barely-contained mirth. “9664?” 

They nod, clasp their hands together, and groan. “I only took on this form and gained consciousness three years ago.” 

“A few months before you met me?” Jack’s voice is unusually quiet. 

9664 takes a moment to nod. “I don’t know what happened with Watcher, but I didn’t intend to do this. Someone else gave me a personality and forced me into a human body.” They pause a moment to let their words and their implications sink in. “As I’m sure you can imagine, there are plenty of people out there who would like to use me for their own reasons, but it would normally be impossible.” 

“So you’re saying someone out there is more powerful than you?” Waver asks. But after a second of silence, he corrects himself. “No, if that were the case, they wouldn’t need you. In other words, they’re someone that knows how to game the system, so to say.” 

9664 stays silent and those in the room take it as confirmation. It does not improve the mood in the slightest. 

Watcher allows several beats to pass before gesturing to the pile of papers on his desk. Sigma gathers the stack and passes packets to every tangible person in the room. Flat moves around to look over 9664’s shoulder. 

“Their name is Mesala Escardos.” 

“Escardos?” Flat is craning, twisting his head and shoulders to get a better look at the paper. 9664 adjusts their hold to accommodate him. “That’s my name! Wait. Am I their son? Are you possessing me? Like The Exorcist?” 

9664 shakes their head, but it does nothing to hide the tenuous smile threatening their face. “No. We named you together.” 

“So _you_ named him ‘Fla-’” 

“So you created Flat as a cover.” 

Waver hardly spares a glance for Jack. They do not try to resume their sentence. There is a mounting horror in Waver’s tone that makes the room feel cold, and they cannot help but clutch their thin clothing closer around their shoulders. 9664 and Watcher are as still as the statues staring down from the shelves. 

“Is that why you’ve stayed here all this time?” 

9664 opens their mouth as if to speak, but Watcher is quicker. “I think we are getting a little ahead of ourselves. Why don’t we table that for now? I think we should address what Mesala wants first. It puts the rest in context. 9664, do you want to do the honors?” 

The glare that 9664 shoots Watcher is cold, but there’s a tinge of emotion behind it. Indignation and frustration, perhaps even shame. “No, I don’t.” They look over the apparition of the feathered man, and then shift their gaze elsewhere. “Why don’t _you_ do it? Were your eyes closed at the time?” 

Flat snickers in the background, and Watcher retaliates with an easy-going grin. “To be frank, I didn’t pay attention to their motives in the first place.”

Waver grimaces, covering his face with his hands. “I don’t understand how you can admit to that with such pride…”

Watcher shrugs nonchalantly, ignoring the sullen atmosphere in the room--aside from Flat, that is. “I can say it with pride because Mesala is not someone that I focus my line of sight on. As an O5, I must pay attention to everything and anything that poses a risk to the Foundation and the Foundation itself-- I’d be a terrible boss if I didn’t pay attention to my employees, don’t you believe?”

There’s a murmur that comes from Waver along the lines of _‘you’re pretty fucking terrible if you ask me’_ , but it doesn’t reach anyone’s ears except Jack’s. And even then, they can’t help but wonder if they had misheard it. 

Whether or not Watcher heard it doesn’t matter, considering that he continues to chatter regardless. “Mesala is, of course, not one of ours. They belong to a rival organization known as Chaos Insurgency. A nasty, troublesome bunch, if you ask me, with a leader that is just as troublesome. That’s right—Mesala Escardos is the leader of Chaos Insurgency.” 

Sigma lifts his packet of papers, and peels the first page away. “The Chaos Insurgency is a group started by a previous Foundation Mobile Task Force that was directly under the command of the O5 council. They defected from the Foundation. Since then, they have launched raids on the Foundation and stolen multiple SCPs. They use anomalies as weapons, but their motives are unknown. Information about their organizational structure is limited. To the best of our knowledge they have not launched raids on other organizations that store, sell, or destroy anomalous objects.” 

Waver wrinkles his nose as he examines the papers for himself. The information is sparse, and much of it contradicts itself. “Then the Foundation has something that they want, or they think that it’s the biggest threat to them right now. No other reason they’d send someone as powerful as Flat here.” It is strange, and stranger still that the files are missing information that Watcher clearly has access to. No. Frustrating. “You’re doing this on purpose aren’t you?” Waver asks. He is getting a headache at this point. “You already knew Mesala, and you can see what they’re doing whenever you want. _You’re_ the threat they’re after.” 

“Me?” Watcher says, with manufactured innocence. 

“9664 was surprised to see Watcher,” Sigma interrupts. “It would be detrimental for any mission if they do not know who their target is.” 

9664 shakes their head in response. “That is not how they plan.” They cross their arms, pressing their back against the wall, almost as if they were hoping to disappear from the room. “I didn’t have a target. I was simply sent out to the world and told to wait for any further instructions. That _she_ would be the sign.” 

Now it’s Jack who interjects. Their eyebrow is raised in a confusion that they doubt will go away. “She? Who are you talking about?”

“Humbaba. The one that attacked the site earlier.” 

Waver leans forward, his expression pale just from the mention of the earlier attack that he had _somehow_ survived. “You’re _kidding_ me. That _thing_ was a _monster!_ ”

9664 shrugs. “The same can be said about most of us in this place.”

Watcher hums his agreement. “I do not believe that there is an ordinary human in this room,” Waver starts, “But we can talk about that later. 9664, would you mind telling us what you were supposed to do when you got that sign? I have a general idea, given that it’s the Chaos Insurgency we’re dealing with, but some specifics would help. Mesala might not have asked you to kill anyone, but did they ask you to steal anything?” 

“No.” 

“So then what?” 

9664’s discomfort is a tangible thing. They look everywhere in the room that Waver and Jack aren’t, finally settling on Flat. They do not gesture, but Flat skips over, and places his intangible hand on their head in a clumsy imitation of a parent. 9664 makes no effort to shake them off. It would be useless regardless.

“Leave my cell while everyone was distracted.” Just as Waver’d caught them doing. “Open all the containment cells and let everything out. He never told me anything other than that.” 

Watcher whistles, long and low. Sigma’s face is stone still. 9664 does not look at Jack or Waver. 

“But you didn’t.” 

9664 does not intend to look at Waver, but their head swings around without their input. Shame and pride taste bitter on their tongue. “I didn’t,” they snap. 

Waver’s eyes soften as if they haven’t just admitted their sins. As if he already knows. Perhaps he does. “And that’s why you want protection.” He does not address what might have happened if 9664 had followed orders. He does not praise them either. 

Flat makes another noble attempt at ruffling 9664’s hair. “Isn’t that great? He’s not mad!” 

“He should be,” 9664 murmurs. “If those things got out, all of you would probably be dead.” 

“More than that.” Watcher straightens the spiralling feathers that hug his chest. “You and I would likely be the only survivors, not just here, but on the entire planet. The things locked in this building could destroy the world several times over. I am sure that there would have been infighting as well, and many of the released SCPs would have died or been otherwise destroyed. While the Chaos Insurgency has a different approach than the SCP Foundation, they don’t exactly have a reputation for destroying anomalies. Mesala, however, has always defied expectations. 9664, would you mind telling us why they might want to destroy the world?” 

“Does it matter why?” 

“You want protection, don’t you? If we know what Mesala is after, we can anticipate how much danger you are in, and the next move they’ll make.” 

9664 nods. “Fine. I don’t know if they were being serious, but they did say something once.” 

\--

  
  


The Chaos Insurgency does not have any central facility. Its wares are stored in sundry locations on and off of every continent. This house is not one of them. Very few members of the Insurgency are aware of its existence, but then again, very few of them are aware of anything. Mesala drips information like molasses, and does not bother checking whether it trickles down. It does not matter what the soldiers think, so long as they do what they’re told. 

Faldeus is one of four people that know this address and its implications. 

The sound of his key knocking bolts into place is loud. The house is old, certainly older than Faldeus, and probably older than the Insurgency itself. Every step through the front hall creaks with the wood. Given the Insurgency’s budget, Mesala could afford somewhere much nicer, but they have never shown any inclination to move. 

Faldeus opens a door somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, and descends. 

The reason that Mesala has never tried to move is the basement. Its crumbling brick walls are crossed over in writings in languages that Faldeus does not understand, and sigils that make his head swim. Inscribing them alone had cost the minds of several minions. He keeps his eyes on the floor. He knows he has reached Mesala when it is more paper than concrete. He keeps his footsteps light so as not to tear the pages. 

Faldeus clears his throat and lifts his head. 

Mesala stares back. “Flat did not follow through on the plan,” they tell him as if he does not know. As if he had not been listening through the few bugs he’d managed to place. 

Faldeus produces a piece of paper from his coat, creased and softened by travel. Mesala takes it and holds it to the light of their desk lamp. It is a sheet of expenses. Most, but not all, are redacted. He has highlighted one of the few that are not. He watches Mesala’s eyes jump to the line. They narrow. He clutches his hands together tight behind his back and tries to focus on the feel of it. 

“We _did_ give him that interest, didn’t we?” Mesala hands the page back to Faldeus, and looks to the incomprehensible scribblings on the walls. Their eyes are steady like a gun trained on a target. “Who requisitioned this?” 

“A researcher named Waver Velvet.” He’d looked pathetic really, but looks could be deceiving. Faldeus had spent years perfecting his. “He is in charge of Flat’s case. He seems to be trying to contain him by making him feel comfortable.” 

Mesala turns to their desk and begins tearing through papers. They have never been fond of electronics. “The Foundation has changed considerably then.” 

“I wouldn’t say so.” 

They stop pawing through their documents. 

“Waver Velvet was a lecturer at a small public university. He was convicted of murder and sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment.” 

“He entered as a D-Class then.” Their voice is slow and thoughtful. Their fingers twitch for a pen. “And how did a sacrificial D-Class become a researcher?” 

It had taken every ounce of charisma and acting Faldeus had to piece together an explanation, and it still was not one that he believes. Mesala is waiting. He steels himself. “Word is that 9664 tried to kill him and failed.” 

The silence gives Faldeus plenty of time to consider what Mesala will say at the end of it. He reviews various variations of scolding, and tries to ignore the ornate knife they are using as a paperweight. 

Mesala’s sigh signals the end of his suspense. “That is unfortunate. It looks like they were ahead of me despite my precautions. Still, I did not think there was anyone like _that._ ” 

“Like what?” 

Mesala’s eyes are bright with fever. Faldeus can almost see the thoughts flickering across their mind. “A living reality anchor.” 

\--

“A _what_?” 

Flat is staring at Waver as if he has placed the stars in the sky. 

9664 is glaring at the ground again. 

“Surely you’ve heard of them. We installed several Scranton Reality Anchors in the walls of 9664’s cell. They should have been listed in the full containment procedures.” 

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” 9664 interjects. They keep their eyes down, but a slow smirk is spreading across their face. 

“From what I’ve heard, SRAs are unreliable even at the best of times.” Waver glares at 9664 from the corner of his eyes. “And in Flat’s case, completely ineffective.” Their smile widens. “But they’re the only reality anchors I’m aware of. Care to enlighten me?” 

“Manmade reality anchors are at least a little effective against your garden variety reality bender, but 9664 is a little different. There is bending reality, and then there is _defining_ reality. To prevent someone from bending some metal, create stronger metal. To prevent someone from creating a new material entirely...” Watcher rolls his wrist to the ceiling. “That takes something else altogether. I won’t go into much detail, but long story short, 9664 and I are the hands and the eyes. We are not the ‘brain.’ The universe can’t let either of us run around unchecked. I am relatively harmless,” More than one occupant of the room scoffed, “But 9664 is something a bit more...volatile.”

“So I’m the universe’s self-restraint.” Waver’s voice is dry as the desert. He hooks one leg over the other and his fingers itch for a cigarette. “Are you shitting me?” 

“No more than usual.” Watcher sports a smile of his own, all too similar to the one on 9664’s face. For the first time, Waver notices just how similar they are. “You’ve already proven your effectiveness at keeping 9664 and Flat in check multiple times. If they—including Flat—hadn’t grown an attachment to both you and Jack here, I’ve no doubt they would have wiped this site off the face of the Earth. Aren’t we lucky?” 

“Lucky?” Jack interjects. “So if I hadn’t met Flat, and if Dr. Velvet hadn’t just _happened_ to be framed for murder, transferred to the SCP Foundation, been around Flat, and been a half-decent person, we’d all be dead. That’s a lot of coincidences.” 

Watcher holds their hands up in mock pacification. “Now, now. I made sure two other reality anchors on the same level as Waver here were present at the time of the attack. Unfortunately, both were otherwise occupied with… ‘Humbaba’ was it?”

“So there’s two more people like Dr. Velvet?” Flat asks. His expression has fallen out of sync with 9664’s- Excitement to their displeasure. “Where are they? Can we meet them?” 

“They’re not ‘people’ as such.” Watcher utters a short command into his computer, and gestures for Sigma to turn the screen. Watcher shifts to the right so his body no longer obscures it. “Most of the universe’s reality anchors, at least the ones we’ve been lucky enough to track down, are not human or even organic. Sigma, would you mind moving? I’m sure everyone else wants to see too.” 

Sigma starts, as if drawn from sleep. He nods, sparing the items on the screen another glance before returning to his post in the corner. 

“Both are active reality anchors- they must make an effort to maintain the integrity of reality, unlike Waver, who only needs to exist. Both came into the Foundation’s possession for their other anomalous properties. We only realized that they were reality anchors later.” 

The screen shows two items side-by-side. The first is a little box in a birdcage. Waver recognizes it as the one Gray keeps hanging from her hip. He does not recognize the second one. It is a chain tipped in a golden spearhead, inlaid with lapis lazuli. “If I had to estimate, I would say there are no more than ten in the entire universe.” 

“So Dr. Velvet’s, like, one in ten gazillion?” Flat asks. 

Watcher nods, and that is when Waver breaks his silence. “And I just happened to drop right in your lap? Don’t give me that bullshit. How did you find me when even I didn’t know about it? I think I’d remember if I’d come into contact with another reality bender.” No. Wait. It couldn’t have been just any reality bender. Waver’s eyes dart to Flat, then 9664, searching for something familiar from outside of the Foundation’s walls. He cannot think of anything. Behind him and out of sight, Jack’s eyes go wide. 

“Just because you didn’t see him,” Watcher grins, “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.” 

\---

The more Waver’s tried to banish the memories, the clearer they’ve become. Kayneth is the proverbial pink elephant- casting him away only makes him linger. 

Waver found Kayneth’s body bathed in sundown orange that almost complimented the blood from his severed neck. He had not thought himself sheltered until he stared down his detested mentor’s cooling larynx. Kayneth’s head lolled on a string of flesh, almost parallel to his broad shoulders. 

Shock paralyzed him. He could do nothing but stand and choke on his bile for precious minutes. They would use that hesitation against him later at the trial. Why hadn’t he called the police sooner? What was he trying to hide? Any _innocent_ person would have contacted the authorities immediately. 

Waver’d laughed when he’d heard that argument, though he knew it would hurt his case. The prosecution had never walked in on _their_ coworker a full head shorter. What did they know of this? Of anything? 

They took his skepticism as another piece of evidence on the growing pile. 

The trial was a sham. He told his lawyer, the judge, and the prosecution that as often as he could. “There was a graduate teaching fellow,” he’d insisted. “He was having an affair with Kayneth’s fiance. He had motive! I saw him go into Kayneth’s office forty minutes before I found his body!” 

His defense attorney shook her head every time. She’d seen the footage, and he was the only person that had entered or left Kayneth’s office after the argument. Worse yet, the graduate student had a perfect alibi. He’d been the next state over at his dying mother’s bedside. The entire hospital and its surveillance equipment confirmed it. 

Waver could hardly afford legal counsel, but his lawyer was an old family friend, and he trusted her judgment as much as his own. He did not think that she was lying, but he knew she was wrong. 

She was wrong. 

They played the footage during the trial. The quality was poor, but good enough for rough facial recognition. Waver strained at the screen. The clip was sped up until it was nearly ten times its original speed. Silhouettes of colleagues and students flitted from one edge of the frame to another like hummingbirds, decreasing in number as evening approached. The timestamp in the corner rolled up. 

Three fifteen.

Four thirty.

Five twenty-five.

Waver strained his eyes against the screen, seeking out a hint of the man he suspected was the culprit. A metallic cloud of static rushed across the screen, and there he was. The graduate student, the _killer_ , was only visible for several frames before disappearing into the office. He emerged seconds (minutes?) later with dark stains down his front. 

The prosecution scrambled to cut the tape. Waver’s lawyer yelled. The Judge demanded order. 

The trial was put on a temporary hold after that. When it resumed, Waver learned that both the prosecution and the defense had hired independent experts to examine the tape. Neither was willing to conclusively state that the data’d been tampered with, but both agreed that the static interference was suspicious. 

It had not been enough to save him in the end. 

Waver Velvet was stripped of his title, sentenced to life, and packed away in an orange jumpsuit to be Foundation cannon fodder. 

And all of that had led him…

\---

Here. 

Waver’s mind is spinning, pulling pieces and memories into place like puzzle pieces. He’d thought they were two different puzzles once- The static on the screen in that courtroom, the static on the monitors in Flat’s cell, and even the way the feed to Watcher’s office had cleared when he’d stared hard enough. And then the person sitting next to him. 

When he turns, Jack is not looking at him. They are looking at Flat with equal measures of guilt and gratitude. 

What the hell were the chances? 

Watcher seems as pleased as ever when Waver glares at him instead. He cannot blame Jack- they weren’t behind the deception. He cannot blame Flat- at that point his reality bending was subconscious at best. He’d just wanted to protect his friend. It is not fair to blame Watcher either, but it is all too tempting when they are grinning like that. 

“Fuck. Fine. But I don’t see why you need me at this point. Flat and 9664 want protection. All I can do is hold them back.” 

“And that is exactly what we need!” Watcher folded his legs under himself and gestured to the window. “Time for a quiz. What does Mesala want?” 

“To overwrite… the world… Shit. They want to use Flat and 9664 for that, but there’s no point in getting their hands on them if the reality anchors are still out there to stop them. So Mesala’s next move is to kill me.” 

“You’re one of the people that stopped 9664. All the more reason to take you out of the equation. 9664, would you mind telling us what you’d do if Dr. Velvet here were to die?” 

9664 grits their teeth in stubborn silence. 

“We wouldn’t destroy the world,” Flat insists. “Jack’s still here! Plus I like everything how it is! I’m not scared of Mesala anyway.” His last words are hesitant, but not on his own account. 

9664’s hands are clenched tight on their lap, feeling Watcher’s relentless gaze on them with ever growing irritation. Their eyes, as dark and frigid as the universe itself, are narrowed in a thinly veiled attempt at masking the emotions that they refuse to admit they have. “I don’t need to answer your question.” 

Despite the lack of an answer, the entire room knows that it is answer enough. Watcher’s grin does not falter in the least. “No, you do not.” 

“There you have it. We have three objectives: Protect 9664, protect the reality anchors, and stop Mesala. All three of those objectives are interdependent. And that brings us to the final topic: How, exactly, are we going to do that?” 

Waver’s eyes are narrowed to the point that everything is out of focus. The answer is obvious, and he is sure that Watcher has already come to the same conclusion. Mesala knows where they are and has access to the full might of the Chaos Insurgency. They have already breached the Foundation’s walls once, and now that they know Flat is not cooperating, their next attempt will likely be even more devastating. 

He locks his fingers together and breathes in. “We have to kill Mesala.” He does not look at 9664. He does not need to. The unsteady legs of his chair shake when they stomp their foot. 

9664 makes for the door, stops, turns to Waver, and paces back to their corner. They stop there, shifting from side to side as if to move, but never following through. 

“Do you have any other suggestions?” Watcher seems all too happy. His arms are crossed over his ribs, and he leans back in a smug show of superiority. 

9664 grinds their teeth. They allow a beat before grinding out a “no.” 

“Great! I’m glad to have you on board. I have already created a plan for Mesala’s assassination and assembled a team. To that end, Jack!” 

Jack jolts to attention. 

“How would you like to go on a fieldtrip?” 

Jack’s mouth works, their jaw swinging open and shut as they beat down nonsense syllables. 

Flat’s darts over to Jack, grabs at their hand, and is not deterred in the least when his less-than-substantial fingers pass through theirs. “You’re gonna let Jack out?” 

“There is plenty of precedent for sending SCPs into the field if we think that it will be relatively safe and advantageous to our mission.” There is a thin smile on their lips. “Jack has reason to protect Flat and 9664, has killed before many times, and has demonstrated that they’re skilled in pretending to be someone they’re not. Best of all, the Chaos Insurgency is not aware of them or their connection with Flat.” 

The soles of 9664’s standard-issue slippers ground into the carpet. “But that’s,” 

“Dangerous,” Waver concluded, side-eyeing his charge. “What happens if they lose control and kill someone they’re not supposed to?” 

Jack keeps their head down. Waver is right: The itch is mostly sated, but it is still present at the back of their mind. It will only get worse as time goes on.

But Watcher has thought of that too. “I never said they’d be unsupervised. I’ve asked Sigma to pack his bags, and requisitioned two additional anomalies with a long track record of loyalty to the Foundation to accompany them.” 

“And what about me?” Flat and 9664 ask again in their strange, ambivalent duet. 

“You’re going to stay here,” Watcher replies. He nods acknowledgement of Waver’s relief. Flat moves to object, but Watcher holds up his hand. “With Sigma gone, I’ll need someone around to help me keep the intelligence and communication side of the operation running. As you can see,” his hand swipes through the phone on his desk, “I can’t exactly dial you up.” He faces 9664’s wrinkles with a smile. “How does that sound to you?” 

9664’s attention drifts to where Flat is hovering around Jack. Their gaze is wary, arms crossed against their chest as they move to look at the rest of the room. “Flat has to stay with me. For his safety.” 

The skeptical look on Waver’s face says everything that needed to be said about 9664’s response, but he also supposes that this was the wrong time to ask the hundreds of questions that he instinctively wanted to ask; even those with answers he does not want to hear. 

But that seems to be a good enough answer for Watcher, who beams at them all with that smile that knows too much but says too little. “Very well, very well. Then if that is the case, I will present you to our first member-- she’s right there in the back. Miss Gray?” 

Gray, who had all but camouflaged herself with the wall, makes a startled noise as everyone’s gaze turns towards her. The amount of eyes are far too many, and her discomfort is all too obvious when she recedes into her cape, hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie. “H-hello. I’m grateful to be sent on this mission.” 

Waver turns around to face Watcher again, his green eyes alight with frustration. “You didn’t _make_ her do this, did you?” 

“Me?” Watcher replies, hand pressed against his chest in a dramatic, feigned hurt gesture. “I would _never._ She volunteered!”

From behind Waver, Gray nods--or maybe it is her retreating further into her hood. “Yes, Doctor...I volunteered to help after...the attack.” Her response, however, doesn’t quell Waver’s irritation, who pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. 

“And who’s the second one?” 

“You may have heard of him down the grapevine, Dr. Velvet, but I doubt that you have spoken to him before.” Watcher winks. “I do my best to keep him separate from Gray for certain reasons, but I believe that between Jack and Sigma, things will remain under control.” 

And, almost as if scripted, there is a knock on the door. Everyone except Watcher tenses up visibly, eyes fixed on the door that slowly creaks open, the head of a young male peeking in through the crack. “Sir? I’m here for the--” 

A pause. 

The young man opens the door further, sniffing the air around him. In the small room, the multitude of scents is almost overpowering, some are dangerous and crooked like a path of broken glass, others are earthy and firm like the forest after an evening rain. But among all of those scents, one stands out over them all.

“ _Miss Gray!_ Miss Gray is it really you?! Oh, to think that I would be on a mission with my lovely Lady!” 

The door is practically knocked off its hinges with the excitement that he opens it with. Blond, wavy hair flutters in a manner that is all too much like dog ears. If he had a tail, it would be wagging from emotion. 

If Gray could melt into the wall, she would. And oh, how she wants to. But luckily, it is Sigma that steps in between them, his dark eyes staring down at the newcomer’s, hand resting on the holster on his side. “Svin Glascheit.” He looks up at Watcher, who’s still smiling pleasantly at the rest of the room, hoping to confirm that this was their fourth member. When Watcher nods, he nods back, returning his gaze to Svin’s. “Keep your hands to yourself.” His voice is soft and quiet, but heavy as lead as the tension in the room becomes palpable. 

But Svin does not need a second warning. With pale cheeks tinted red by embarrassment, he looks away. “I...apologize. That was inappropriate of me.” 

No one has the time to accept or reject his apology, though. Flat, whose eyes are sparkling with the usual, child-like excitement, cuts in first, “Are you like a dog?” 

Svin bristles. Any thoughts of Gray have clearly left him, and he grabs for Flat’s collar. His hand passes through, but he hardly misses a beat. “What the hell,” 

“You were smelling the air when you came in! Do you have a super nose? Are you a werewolf?” 

Svin takes a deep breath in through his nose. He looks at Gray, then rounds on Watcher with his hackles raised. “Sir. Permission to terminate the anomaly?” 

“Permission denied,” Watcher chimes. 

“They smell like a disaster waiting to happen,” Svin intones, “Like you.” 

“Very astute of you, Svin,” Watcher agrees. “But still, you aren’t allowed to kill them.” They redirect their grin to the rest of the room. “As Sigma has said, this is Svin Glascheit: A member of one of our many Mobile Task Forces, and SCP-7821-32. SCP-7821, the Glascheit family, has been assisting the foundation for generations. They are famous for their physical strength, impeccable senses, and,” he winks at Flat, “Various transformations. I am sure that he will be a valuable addition to the team.” 

“So he _is_ a werewolf!” Flat laughs in delight. 

Two hands, one belonging to Waver and the other to Jack, land on Svin’s shoulders. Jack shakes their head, and Waver reels him in, hurls him into the chair 9664 had rejected.

“Right then.” Waver tosses one leg over the other. “What’s the plan?” 

The plan is, at best, slapdash. It only takes another fifteen minutes for Watcher to explain the bare bones of it: Mesala Escardos is holed up in a small cottage somewhere in the Mediterannian, well off the beaten path. The team is to gain their trust (“however you think is best”), infiltrate their home (“however you think is best”), identify and neutralize any security measures (“however you think…”), and eliminate Mesala. 9664 is explicitly forbidden from interfering. 

There is very little for them to say for the rest of the meeting, though that does not stop Flat from interjecting from time to time. 

An additional twenty minutes pass while Watcher and Dr. Velvet engage in a one-sided argument about logistics or the lack there-of. All-told, nearly an hour passes before they are allowed to return to their room. 

Sigma is assigned to accompany Jack to their designated lodgings, while Gray escorts 9664 at Waver’s request. He had quite a few things he wanted to speak to Watcher about it seemed. The moment they leave Watcher’s office, Flat sinks back under 9664’s skin, like a child falling into bed. 

9664 stumbles over the threshold, readjusting to the shift in reality’s weight. The tap of Gray’s hand on their shoulder steadies them. When she speaks, she tucks her head down into her collar, muffling her voice until they have to ask her to repeat herself. “Are you okay?” 

Sharp, acrid laughter bits off the end of her question. 

“ _Big bad reality bender can’t even walk straight!”_

Gray bangs her hand against something metallic hiding under her cloak. Her voice is considerably sharper than before. “Add!” The voice stops speaking, but the laughter remains. “I- I’m sorry,” Gray tells them. Her volume is a gradual slope into silence. “He doesn’t mean it. He just wants to sound...” They cannot make out the rest.

9664 shakes their head. They are too tired. Questions can wait.

Gray frets the entire way back to their containment chamber, looking away whenever their dark eyes catch a glimpse of her green. Every once in a while, they catch her about to say something, but no words ever come out. All that is between them are a string of unspoken questions and unspoken replies. 

And for them, that is fine. 

As they pass through the door of their containment chamber, 9664 turns around to face Gray one last time. Her expression, though meek on the outside, hides an intense determination underneath the surface.

“Good luck.” She mumbles, her gaze warm like the sun they had not seen in over a year. “I will pray for you and Flat.” 

_What gain is there in praying_ , they want to ask. But, as weak as they are now, the most they can do is raise an eyebrow, cocking their head to the side in mild confusion. And, perhaps, from the small, nervous smile that she gives him before she turns around and closes the door, it was all that needed to be done. 

9664 barely reaches the bed before their legs give up on carrying their weight. They collapse on the bed with a sigh, facing the ceiling with an empty gaze. If they had known that letting Flat manifest for so long would have been so exhausting, they would have never agreed to it. Constantly bending reality to continuously prove Flat’s existence had been a challenge like no other--even if he had only been in a non-corporeal form the entire time. 

_You didn’t have to, y’know. I was glad just knowing that Jack and Doctor Velvet were okay._

A small, tired whisper speaks in their head. 9664 does not appear surprised in the least--it is Flat’s voice, after all. But coming up with any response beyond a non-committal sound is far more energy than they can muster, so that is what they stick with. 

_Doctor Velvet said something, though. He said that you made “me” as a cover… is that true?_

Silence.

“Yes.” 

They do not hesitate in giving that answer. Nor do they regret it. They knew that _Flat Escardos_ had originally been no more than a mask to live among the unsuspecting situation because that is how they and Mesala had originally planned it. The question was whether or not Mesala had accounted for the off chance that this mask would become someone entirely new…

But that was beyond their scope. Everything regarding Mesala was beyond their understanding. All they were supposed to do was comply and do as told. 

Flat hums in response. Though 9664 cannot see him, they are able to imagine how he would look-- sitting down at the edge of the bed, hand cupped around his chin in a thoughtful expression that would be far too exaggerated for any human watching them

_If that’s the case, then shouldn’t you be the one that’s called Flat? It’s the name that this Mesala person gave you!_

9664 turns on their side, facing the wall. “It doesn’t matter. Something like me doesn’t need a name.” 

And to that, Flat laughs. 9664 can easily picture him grinning down on them with a smile that they had never been able to perfect during the weeks that they had been on their own, and the mere thought of it is, in a sense, a small relief. 

_You_ deserve _a name,_ Flat says, earnest as always. _And after all you’ve done for me, I think that’s the least I can do for you, right?_

“I’ve done nothing for you.” They say to themselves and Flat. “Letting us die would have been detrimental for the mission and for myself as well.”

_You mean the mission that you didn’t do anything for?_

There is no response. 9664 wonders if this is how scathing _they_ are towards others. Met with silence, Flat continues without a care in the world. 

_I know you could have deleted me at any moment. Everyone thinks I’m an idiot, and that’s fine...but I know you don’t. And you never killed me, even if it was probably the most efficient thing to do. If it had been you instead of me, I might’ve done it._

It’s true. Once again, 9664 says nothing. Removing Flat would have been as easy as blinking, as simple as taking in a breath of fresh air…

But they are not sure if they could have withstood watching Jack and Waver worrying about him any more than they did. 

“...Do whatever you want then.”

Deep in their heart, they know that they do not want to stop him. The reasons why are something that was still unknown to them, but perhaps there is no need to give a reason for everything. If Flat wishes to give them a name...then they will not stop him. 

Their eyes, dark as the ocean’s depths, close under the weight of their exhaustion. It is the first time that they wish to sleep, and the sensation alone is something absolutely _alien_ to them. 

But as they give their body into it, they hear a soft laugh from Flat’s end. With their eyes closed, it’s easier to visualize him, like a light that breaks through the darkness. 

_“Alright then...I have the perfect name for you. From now on, your name will be--”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the readers that stuck with us throughout our journey!! part 1 is over, though we hope to continue writing this after some time. i'm so happy that we've been able to receive so many kudos, hits, and comments, and it's all thanks to folxs like you guys that we were motivated to see this until the end! 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed the story and, if you're watching narita, fight me.


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